poems
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I was a child of the winter Cut lips dripping fresh blood on snow Cold blue and spotted bruises Mangled skin on my stomach that no one will ever know // A fragile monarch trapped in a northern November As the vibrant oranges of autumn fade into weathered grey Fragile wings and skinny bodies crumble…
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Evil perspectives echo through my head Of so-called candor cloaking comparison and hatred Calculated laughter, condescension as the intent Credit intimacy and comfort as excuses to treat me like I’m less // I don’t usually believe in public displays of affection or emotion Breakdowns are reserved for moments of desperate isolation I’m trying so hard…
Portmantle 