dear, you. three am is a little too early for poetry

Dear You, 

standing between the wave and shore,

blocking the daffodils from the storm,

catching the fallen leaves, sombre; pure.

Dear You,   

fingers all cold and sore

the crevice of your lips, reeking ichor

your eyes gleaming. vanishing allure

Dear You, 

scraping empty corners

biting fresh cut wounds

piercing noxious lethal blades

till you are, left immune.

Dear You, 

your skull on the floor

your soul on the ironing board

your skin all gone.


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