god, save the writers

 

"What happened to your fingers?" he asked.

he held my hand 

and 

I almost died.

 

 

“Get out.” 

That’s what I told the boy 

who made my fingers exhale poems 

who serenaded me old love songs 

and taught me the art of blowing a dandelion. 

As he leaves, 

I go back to the wooden floor and

write a prose about

agony when felt

as the pages absorb a plethora of blood 

I write more

and more

and more

My whole body experiences

 a state of absolute nirvana as I see him in front of me, 

bandaging my wrist and my bloody fingers. 

He kisses each of my knuckles. 

I convinced myself I was hallucinating. 

He kisses me in the forehead this time and the 

outcome of his sorrow flows through my cheeks. 

I was not hallucinating. 

I fall apart,

another thing I was good at.

Reviews

[SonOfPlunder]

Nice flow to this, reads really well and emotion springs from it

[CountNicholasAlti]

This is really good, you seem to have a total control of what you want to say and how you say it, something often hard to convey into text. You have a few beautiful lines in here. "Who made my fingers exhale poems" or "the outcome of his sorrow flows through my cheeks" and the like. I enjoy the mood of this poem, it's emotional yet theirs an overwhelming emptiness. I think you meant "taught me the art of blowing a dandelion" instead of "thought" which is just a minor typo, otherwise I have no real quarrel with this. It was good repetition and an advanced diction for the most part. Well done.

[Addie Santos]

Thank you, thank you. I appreciate your kind words. Also, thanks for the notice, I didn't proofread after I finished the last sentence. X Hope you had a good day.