iii. BLOOD MOONS.
his words felt like
glass through her veins
but he was
dry blood in the back
of his throat and with
rubber, he continued
to dig into her healed
wounds looking for
the satisfactory that
her blue rivers under
sun kissed skin held.
she only stuck around
because when the sun had
greeted them with a soft
kiss, he was knelt beside
her, stitching back the open
cuts as her blood stayed
stained on his chapped lips.
YOU ARE READING
what tomorrow brings.
Poetryxvii, april. (iii). you have no voice if no one is listening. © playlist poetry h.r. : #3
