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Samantha

If you don't learn to write your own story, someone else will write it for you

5 poems·Since July 2013
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Aftermath

July 18, 2013

He doesn't even hear the phone.

His skin is melted to the bone.

Flicking lighters, getting higher,

he awaits to beg the buyer.

To get more, to get more.

His body aches and now it's sore.

It's the rush. It's the sting.

All the comfort that it brings

til its gone, til its ceased,

to his knees. Amen. Now, peace.

Carry on. This isn't real.

Keep the secret. That's the deal.

I'll keep quiet. I will hide it.

I will do my best to fight it

but the horse is at the water.

I am the lamb and this is slaughter.

 

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