pulling teeth.
and sucking everything out of your sockets.
i taste the years of things left unsaid in your blood.
iron, copper, oil.
you're rich, baby, you're rich.
every morning
i stand under the water in the shower
and touch my wrists.
feeling where i'll make my mark.
that was all i could think when you
said you were glad i wasn't dying.
i guess it depends on how you define
"dying".
definitionA Poem by Mae BeeThe quick, bitter thoughts after a conversation with someone you believ(ed) to be your true and only love.
© 2008 Mae BeeReviews
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2 Reviews Added on April 2, 2008 |