I remember the scattered broken glass and spilled beer back at the bar last week. Your lips were quivering and you were holding an unlit cigarette in your hand. You slumped over the table and our friends were trying to console you. I don't understand. You were furious. You pointed your finger at me and tried to speak. But you stopped yourself. I don't get it. You have the grime to show up and point fingers? F^ck you! F^ck her, too! I know you've been f^cking for weeks!
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
