" 'cause my house ain't a home. 'cause i'm living alone —"
i feel like the murderers on the orient express. i shy away from killing but you caught me anyway. maybe one day when my vision stops blurring for good i will be able to read again the last gift so bravely written and so despairingly received.
2 comments:
just once, can you murder one of your poems by explaining to me exactly what it means?
so why does everybody run away?
(see what i did there? i'm clever when i'm up too late.)
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