TW: drugs, ODing, death
Razors in her hand,
clouds in her brain-
she keeps making lines
parallel like her path and her lover's
they never meet together.
Powder powered tears
ruin those thin white lines.
She races her fingers between them,
a race of infinite laps with no ending.
No one asks her to stop.
The packet empty, her nose itchy -
she must've breathed some dust along.
The doors open when dawn breaks,
to find her cold and pale -
parallel to her lines and just as still
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Yes, this is an interlude. The story started way longer but you have arrived here now, at an interlude. I am Moghiat and I am no one specia...
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It must be a successful year for the poets and wordsmiths, plenty of misery to churn their tears into words, plenty of irony in the world a...
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