Like the ichor of the gods dripping from your lips, these bottled, lonely, spirits course through my veins.
I am small, just a child with a soft voice, and brittle bones,
I keep to the darkness, only mysterious in my silence, stemming from the fear of my own voice.
You are the darkness in which I find comfort. You are fierce, steel, cold and cynical. Your voice is raspy and enticing, without a hint of remorse for the space it occupies.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
Like the ichor of the gods dripping from your lips, these bottled, lonely, spirits course through my veins.
I am small, just a child with a soft voice, and brittle bones,
I keep to the darkness, only mysterious in my silence, stemming from the fear of my own voice.
You are the darkness in which I find comfort. You are fierce, steel, cold and cynical. Your voice is raspy and enticing, without a hint of remorse for the space it occupies.
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