Dawn. Heart that crashes into the wall of my ribs, it hits itself to run away over and over. Travelling far from me not to sink in the seas of tears; ink where the pen that narrate me on white sheets drowns itself.
Disabled. It drags itself by the corners of its prison, room that corners it inside the pain. Home in flames where a spiral of arrow shoots offers it in sacrifice. Martyr of the failures of my mind.
Alone. It’s pulled up the thorns that tangle it to my soul and runs without looking back. I see it to get away from me and only keep me in a empty drawer until it comes back…
Although I doubt that it comes back with its poetry.