Feb 18
Peel me open and you will find—
not flesh, not bone,
but echoes of words that died in my throat.
My ribs,
a library of unsent letters.
My spine,
a staircase no one climbs.
I was never here, not really.
Only the dust remembers my weight.
not flesh, not bone,
but echoes of words that died in my throat.
My ribs,
a library of unsent letters.
My spine,
a staircase no one climbs.
I was never here, not really.
Only the dust remembers my weight.
