My darkest cup of tea. My garden of curdled leaves. Wound up greens, bleed me free and leave a path of dead pedals leading me to another empty creek. My dirty, sleeveless dress, frayed and absentine. My aromatic rose red, my darling Agathie. My soul deprived angelic. My scented rotted reed. My horror in a bottle, my counter bought relief. My eyes shut dead from pain, my twisted curse of me. My bold text written words, my lies of ill conceit. My sorrow and my anger, my closest Agathie. My aromatic rose red. My evil lusting seed. My wandering descendant. My child doesnt breathe. My guiled lost baronic, my screaming Agathie. My lashes and my splitners, my torture spiked of cream. My loss of heart in casting. My tomb of sod and weed. My blister held so proudly. My kill I mark with grief. My victim and my lover, my vicious Agathie.
VIEW 15 of 15 COMMENTS
What's odd is that you don't do more with your writing, dear, or if you do, you hide it.
By the way, I AM so inclined.
And I know all about the teeth.