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RMatheson
Poems
Jan 17
Whispers
"What will my parents think?"
she whispered as his eyes flashed red.
"They won't even know you're dead, "
spoke his venom just outside her head.
Brittle flesh
Delicate hair
Cloth on mouth
Lack of air
******* and your righteousness.
******* and your heart.
******* and your pretty head.
You were dead from the start.
Written by
RMatheson
Beating tired bones
(Beating tired bones)
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Monique Matheson
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