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end-of your thorn. - Subscribe
you turn
your face
away from me;

say I make you
sick -

I make you sick.

and with only words,
you make me into
the thorn.

I, the illness
that twists your stomach;

I,
the venom
that poisons your breath;

I speak as
your treacherous,
torturous disease:

oh, god,
what I'd give to be
free of your veins.

oh, my enemy and creator,
the thorn in your skin

would die to
return to its vine
and just be.
2 Comments
Mood: prickly.