Trapped in a small living room the rose wants to bloom, it grows, opens its shells, shows its thorns and asks very quietly, "touch me, there on the silk soft spots, not at the bottom where it will poke." While the growing stops and the living groom becomes the thought of a man craving more,... Lees verder →
Trainmusing
I muse through the window frame, torturing myself by thinking about what I don't know, that I don't know, where to go, that I don't know why I exist. I muse on a way forwards, and despair sits next to me.