look at my blood flowers, because I write with a serene sharp blade that soothes. as much as cuts into the deepest parts of my soul
On the coffee table is a framed photograph; the glass smeared with my mouth.
I hear the witches incantations,their spells woven through fantasy, longing and a reality draped in conservatism.
We all have our safe places, where none are invited. They are lonely rooms full of the musk of memory. Sanctuary rather than adventure.
There is a light within our soul that burns brighter than the sun. And we ignore it.
Those masks we wear not to shield others; but ourselves from who we are.
convoluted distortions,scripting thoughts without meaningyet hold a feeling of what was once known but forgotten in growing up.
ghosts of memoriesresonate and chaseyesterday into today,living parallel livesin separate realities.
that piece of you I hold inside always searching for the part of mein you.
Soothe me or hurt me, I'm paralyzed anyway.