Beneath my grandmother’s quilt I sink,
Hopeless thoughts decorate my skin like patchwork.
The wind whistles sweet nothings
Through the holes in my skull.
Breath is trapped in a brown paper bag,
Contained and returned to its host.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
Beneath my grandmother’s quilt I sink,
Hopeless thoughts decorate my skin like patchwork.
The wind whistles sweet nothings
Through the holes in my skull.
Breath is trapped in a brown paper bag,
Contained and returned to its host.
