Wrong Piece (A Poetry)


even your grip
felt hot and wrong;
your curled fingers
trapping the blood
in my skin.
your two lips
pressing against
mine were filled with salt;
my lips were bruised.
your breath was the
demon’s air trespassing
my already broken lungs.
you told me,
“we’ll always have this,”
though i did not want anything.
i told you why, but you
would not let go.
so, i cried.
and, dear, i died
when you said
everything would
be fine.



let me hold your words before you leave;

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