her watercolor tears ignite your paper lies: her promises to herself leave imprints on you
There’s a voice haunting the remnants of my thoughts
And I know it better than the back of my hand.
It whispers the contradictions I don’t want to hear,
But perceptions are fickle and so easy to mend
And self-destruction isn’t so hard to understand.
I can’t set free the callow cry or the…
