Apr 2015
Your words cut deep,
drawing ink from my wound,
that drips onto the page-
running down the paper,
spelling out screams as it flows-
turning from red to black,
and cold
and dry
as dust.
drawing ink from my wound,
that drips onto the page-
running down the paper,
spelling out screams as it flows-
turning from red to black,
and cold
and dry
as dust.
February 23, 2015
