Queen of Spades

Sun, 11/15/2015 - 00:37 -- fallen

When the sunkissed skin is disturbed, like the soil of a fresh grave, it's noticed.

If you look close, or lazily drag your fingers over the forbidden places,

you'll know.

Once it's pulled apart, it's hard to splice.

The slice.

The other slice.

The last slice.

Will always be the first, never the last slice.

You'll never be whole, comfortable in your skin yet you still look.

That's why you dig.

Deeper and deeper, you're making a mess.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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