A little crumpled.
Fold it in half.
A bit dry from the crevasses of its body,
still, it’s a blank slate.
There’s a table placed beside it.
A warm chocolate milk on the right side of the table, the rain poured, and winds blew.
A pale hand reaching for it.
Skin like ivory, laced with thick, intensifying wires all over her body.
It connects, and there’s a pulse.
A pull.
Observed from his perspective, there’s a gravity,
it is a button, or power itself.
Drained.
Whether from the weather or words born with swords.
Birth.
It’s a little crumpled,
folded into eight shapes.
He bled as a form of escape
and she drank her warm chocolate milk.
Alongside it, there was filth.
I have been writing for years and it became who I am today. but sometimes, there are words and metaphors I cannot write and it frustrates me, not being able to write something. not being able to explain it in such a manner that it will come as beautiful, pleasing, warm, and genuine.
but today, I tried.
