Deception and lies, poisoned water from a rusty faucet that's just been painted over to look new.
And it makes me sick. The lack of trust and communication is the fault of the painter, not the drinker.
My one salvation. The garden. A traitorous path as well, forcing belladonna and hemlock down my throat when I only seek solace.
And as I choke on the very question of why, I am alone. The silence is painful. Or perhaps it's the betrayal in my weakest moments that causes the sting.
Why wasn't I enough?
YOU ARE READING
From a Crow's Beak: Writing in Passing
PoetryWriting that I've come up with when my emotions push me to create. This is your warning that a lot of these are depressing.
