My bed is a box, filling with water when I least expect it
I am asphyxiating
I was fine until I remembered that there's no one here
Being alone is like
There is smoke in my lungs,
But ice on my skin
The fissure in my heart, the great divide
Why does it even bother to pump my blood anymore?
This is not the kind of poem I like to write
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 5:47 PM UTC
My bed is a box, filling with water when I least expect it
I am asphyxiating
I was fine until I remembered that there's no one here
Being alone is like
There is smoke in my lungs,
But ice on my skin
The fissure in my heart, the great divide
Why does it even bother to pump my blood anymore?
This is not the kind of poem I like to write
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