Poke me to sleep

poke me

I then decide to initiate the potent snow and connect the dots of a spotless and faded memory. I mimic the importance of emotions and actions. I mitigate the cries I have let go alone when I was just learning how to deal with a memory older than me. Every pain is a singular one. I don’t avail the opposite opinion because there’s not one that counts. Every time I remember is a new thing. Every garland present I have tried it on. None looks pretty on those images.

Looking out from an unknown window
Too many emotions are driving to my nerve-wracked brain. And so I wake up. A knot in my throat. This is far too common for me. So I breathe 4 hold 7 and spit 8. Then I repeat. My head starts spinning a little. I press my P6. I take my personal iron tool. I still remember the day I found it and decided to adopt it specifically to poke me. I hold the two extremities that make up its body. I Press through the scaly texture of my fingertips. I mold my lips to kiss first one than the other sharp edge.

You’re standing in between two tips of the index and middle finger. You’re singing me your deadly lullaby.

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