"No one knows where the edge of the knife is,
and no one knows what intelligent life is."
No matter how much we want ghosts to walk, they do not. No matter how much we project them on the walls, no matter how much we want to feel their weight shift,
By Sara Wynn3 years ago in Poets
Saccharine Scythe, thank you for pruning me; savagely setting the snakes out to sun, shaking the fragrant shadows out to run,
You set me on fire, gasoline soaked. but, I burned too brightly, and I went up in smoke. - Alit with desire, but then, I choked
Frames of lighthouses and oceans move; the sun crawls orange across the room. Split curtains cut the bleeding light; red cardinals sing sharply outside.
I will not survive you again, I cannot risk it. You're like a knife to my wrist. I will not survive you again; you're so fucking twisted.
Anticyclonic accompaniment alluring amorous audiences, accentuates abridged acromatics, assuaging adrenaline afflictions.
Ambiparous Atropa attackers among an Aconitum arrangement; alluring Absinthium and Asters accompany aforementioned agents.
If I died, would you see me then? Maybe then, you'd treat me like a human? Do I have to die to see you again? I'm dying to see you again.
You were supposed to be my husband, and I have been through such hell since. I'll never believe any promise, chained alive in your absence.
It's not that I hate you, but that I don't love you. It's not that I'm leaving, but that I'm not staying. ~ It's not that I'm lying,
You never knew me, and you never will. You never saw me, never, not until it was past too late, no longer fresh kill,
Your words meant nothing, my words meant everything. You never ever listened to the words I was saying. I said what I meant,
