the violence of beauty is self-inflicted
a rose without thorns would not taste
like rust. like pain. like light. like. you—
you remember, when you feel it again
the holes she left in your body. your—
you remember. the color of your blood
on her, lips. her lips, pressed into skin
the wounds reopen
a rose without thorns would not taste
like rust. like pain. like light. like. you—
you remember, when you feel it again
the holes she left in your body. your—
you remember. the color of your blood
on her, lips. her lips, pressed into skin
the wounds reopen
Reposted from
Wondra ⛓️ Shoots
I can’t forget the taste of my own tongue.
Self portrait
Self portrait
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