Heroin #1

Fri, 12/22/2017 - 21:35 -- kibesso

 

Crinkle. In the palm of my hand. 
I see black pitch foil. 
I smell the smoke. 
It is acrid, rotted, sticky in my throat. 
One hand holds life. 
The other hand holds death. 
There was once a choice in these bold hands. 
Beauty is now gone. 
She has left me, for my eyes are hollow.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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