to the heart that held a raw, undying malice

by suicidallyanonymous

On a paper sheet, she wants to hurt herself
in the same way a mattress bends
its spring to grope the slut
bleeding her morals.
I can see words, and they’re clinging to her thigh.
It isn’t a love story
anymore. It’s a broken telephone.
It’s an insanity plea
stealing the poetry from my mouth.
Because she, is no longer a girl.

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