Summer
The summer created a chance to stop pretending.
The summer created a true and perfect ending.
I wanted to find the reasons why,
but all my will has dried up and died,
left only to self mutilate and cry.
As the flowers wither away,
I turn to grey.
I lose all hope of anyone finding me.
I cannot stop the decay eating away at me.
Dig the needle into the skin.
The strings hold together,
what would fall out,
in.
Copyright © Angel Garcia | Year Posted 2016
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