blood runs thin in these veins, like water, to her death and this venom is vile as it is vain but blind eyes see little of this. she acclaims medicine to her bones! bridging barrenness of belief that she is anything, amounting to something. lost, despair, an air too foul undoing her angst soul, sold to murkinessÂż yeah, the kind that runs her worn spirit.
and mornings are hell. she wakes with a lesser cognition, that this, this void is everything empty as bile churns bitter, etching the edges of her tongue. dismay, she might never learn sheâs her own worst enemy, scorching her beauty to ashes.
this poison, she drinks like wine.
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