Poetry

Read me if you
care. I am going to
rip off the lid of oven.

How many faces
you will wear, when it is
raining silver and gold?

It sounds like wrought
bones. I find myself suspended
in air, like humming bird,
not like drone.

It was a mutual
suicide of opioid love. It
does not belong to me. the
divested home of words.

The pink wounds
on the wall of memory.
Not me, not you.