His face was pressed against the wall
And his hands were shoved, so tight
Into the pockets of a skirt
With flowers of pink and white.
Her hair spilled into his mouth and ears
She smiled three smiles at once
Until her smile cut open his palm
Which leaked for months and months.
From then on sunshine filled up all his clothes
And laughter poured like lead
Into his throat that happily choked
And coughed until he was dead.
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2 comments:
Oh, no-one you know...I just found your blog and fell a bit in love with it!
Your writing reminds me of Sylvia Plath...is this the idea?
x
rose.
I like this one :)
xoxoxox
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