Breathe freshly picked milk,
I die alone in my room.
I do it often.
About the Creator
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More stories from Titania Sterl and writers in Poets and other communities.
Tobacco Stain
Under her bed, she peeked around at the room and her plan: open window, cloth hanging from the ledge with items hidden or knocked over as if they had been packed away in a hurry. Jerking at every noise, she covered her mouth, reminding herself that this was an old house and not every sound signalled a meaty hand, fingers blackened over time, stained with tobacco. However, the next creak cautioned exactly that, with unsteady footsteps stumbling up the stairs.
By Titania Sterl2 years ago in Poets
When True Love Never Questions Your Soul
“And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up, just so it can kick you in the stomach but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.” — Sarah Kay’s Poem — If I Should Have a Daughter
By Chantal Christie Weiss5 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Fantastic! Well written!