youâre not a poem and thatâs why i love you i used to write about the moon hanging shadows on and around my neck the cacti shriveling blisters in death valley imaginary summer superstorms and neurotransmitters pulses and a lack thereof i thought about punctuation and the ghosts iâd talk to in circles sepia-stained i painted over them in ugly neons and called it art (as if my wrists were art once u
{{#tags}}- {{label}}
{{/tags}}