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.

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

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