Sep 8, 2017
Eight Til Seven
the hanged clock with unmoving hands on its' face shows no seconds, not stuck but ticking steadily in the night he watches her, eyes closed breathing quite heavily, mind not to disturb her laid out body. As his envy grows in the unrest, a wavering will and an uneasy heartbeat thumping away in his chest.
She loves me, repeat it, I need to hear it don't rouse her sleeping still she startles so easy and clings to me
wether teeth marks or blue veins nor bruises freckles or scars rosy cheeks or blushing ears to get scared to feel alive and bear witness to the beauty and the tragedy that made you with that sad smile you wear so good i cannot unknow
circa 11
