i.
the scent of sorrow, hanging in the air
rotting away what's left of this skin.
wrists — sewn shut
are wrists undone:
the morbidity of it all pervades —
this i confess.
ii.
look not. turn not, for
each careful stare, each scornful gaze
has me falling back into darkness;
maybe eurydice has found comfort in its arms.
maybe so have i.
maybe this is how it's always meant to end.
iii.
lately, sunsets no longer melt
into an afterglow —
they just turn into the night.
at least it dims
the futility of drawing each shallow breath
from places filled with smoke and dust;
there used to be something there:
this, i confess.
this, i remember.
there used to be something there.
there used to be something h e r e.
— fray // november, must you be so cruel to my trembling hands left with no heart to break?
Nov 22, 2020
Nov 22, 2020 at 6:04 AM UTC
i.
the scent of sorrow, hanging in the air
rotting away what's left of this skin.
wrists — sewn shut
are wrists undone:
the morbidity of it all pervades —
this i confess.
ii.
look not. turn not, for
each careful stare, each scornful gaze
has me falling back into darkness;
maybe eurydice has found comfort in its arms.
maybe so have i.
maybe this is how it's always meant to end.
iii.
lately, sunsets no longer melt
into an afterglow —
they just turn into the night.
at least it dims
the futility of drawing each shallow breath
from places filled with smoke and dust;
there used to be something there:
this, i confess.
this, i remember.
there used to be something there.
there used to be something h e r e.
— fray // november, must you be so cruel to my trembling hands left with no heart to break?
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