“You don’t,
have to,
worry about,
me.”,
she says.
Mouth ******,
after spitting,
out words,
covered in,
razor blades.
Maybe it’s something,
you can understand,
or maybe,
it’s something,
that makes you want to run,
straight to Neverland,
and dim witted,
Peter Pan.
“You should,
probably,
worry about,
me.”,
she should,
have said.
But words covered,
with cotton,
tend to cut,
much deeper,
than the ones,
not.