xxiii. "YOUR WORDS ARE DRENCHED
IN SADNESS."
how do you expect me to
write about love when all
i've ever experienced is
an overwhelming rise in
broken hearts and unhealed
wounds left by people i held
close.
maybe that's what love is
afterall. open cuts never
being stitched up. broken
hearts cracked right down
the middle, ripped from the
bones it rests under.
maybe society has constructed
love into being something more.
glowing red's rather than deep
blues. kisses on the softest lips
rather than on the knuckles they
hit you with.
maybe society has constructed
love into being something more
all because everything else is too
fucked up.
( and if that's the case, i've never felt
more in love with the idea of
being out of love. )
YOU ARE READING
what tomorrow brings.
Poetryxvii, april. (iii). you have no voice if no one is listening. © playlist poetry h.r. : #3
