Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god

Face-Lifting The Malady Of A Fragmentalized Consanguinity

"I am a yawn upon fingertips, am I not?"
He spat the words at me as I stood there,
Making sense of death and demolition.
The sky was dyed a dark purple, twilight
Was falling faster than my heart.
I could not speak upon the one who
Sought to destroy me; I could only
Stare, as a myriad of thought came to
Disturb my frosted mind.
Nausea crept up my throat and I fought
To chew the words down into my stomach.
My veins itched, my scars screamed,
His hand on my shoulder make my
Mind cackle out warnings that I could
Not heed; I instead stretched out
My hurt until he could understand the pain.
He would walk away, and I would follow,
Swearing together that, we would paint away this war.

3-9-10
 


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Face-Lifting The Malady Of A Fragmentalized Consanguinity

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