you little

poetry

 

something scarred
november

if a begun
soft and the
blue light or
river

bu a bitter
certainty
crawled upon
its spine

aheee to dieeeee
before
the bible of
this century
has been engraved
between our
vein

november
continued
until it was
called december

like a
knife cutting
slowly, subtly,
over the top
of desire

something

like hope
bleed

someone
walks
over the’
me

to say

the bar is
closing

and yesterday
is too
late

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