Come
at me like I am silk and lace. Like I am
something to be worn and ripped. Leave your ideas of me in tatters on the
floor.
I
am muscle and mad hope. I am hard
fought. Comprise is just a
position. Take me. When I tear, I grow.
Mascara
tears running down my face, he said, “You look beautiful.” Pain looks pretty on me.
No comments:
Post a Comment