POETRY | HER 轉

behind the door is an empty room,

stands a shadow with a beating heart—

a forlorn soul where flowers don’t bloom;

a debris of fiasco and chaff art.

 

there is no sound that can wake Her up,

neither the sunlight in solarium—

a navigator without a map;

a head filled with fear and delirium.

 

eyes are screaming for deliverance

but it just echoes in the desert.

the body tried to hold resistance

until the blood in veins start to spurt ∼


zhuan. this is the turning point..

I WISH I COULD LOVE MYSELF I WISH I COULD LOVE MYSELF I WISH I COULD . . .

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