Black crow eyed, and red thread stitched, I an etching on ice. I twist away from your ill intentions, avoiding distasters like it’s a dance.
I wear my tears like you’ve worn ribbons in your hair; a decoration, a declaration of what I am worth, of who I think I am. I have always been more sincere than you. More genuine. I never hid, like you, behind men and imitation.
I think you burned with the fields that fall. I think you all burned away into cinders and ash. I think I realized this just as all of you ceased glowing; a distant, far off meteor crash.
I know your ghosts were watching. You had the expectation I wouldn’t be able to thrive. That I’d lay down, instead, right there in your remains; a lostling unable to survive.
Self Portrait/Writing - Myself