Your Claws Dug Into The Skin On My Face

your claws dug into the skin on my face

rotting for months in the basement of your heart

i lay lifelessly on your carpeted floors

chapped lips repeating your surname

it's the only noun my diseased brain won't rid of

using my nails to pluck my flesh out of your barred teeth

you lick the dried blood off your fingertips

am i turning in your stomach?

~ fawn

I write so I know that I am alive.

Harald Sohlberg, , Moonlight, 1907

a poem for september 🤍

the air has a bite to it

it nips at my bruised legs

and styles my messy hair

the leaves fall in the palms of my hand

and i know everything is going to be alright.

~ fawn