the ants in my veins

There’s no blame in refusing me

I’m a cemetery, love.

There are too many things that have long since been buried,

I cry when I feel and I cry when I don’t.

 

But maybe you’ll learn that even in graveyards

The stillest of hearts are still hearts in their own.

That even though mine is cold and forgotten

it can hurt, it can bleed, it can change, it can grow.

 

Remember that even where death is most present,

where the moon fails to light, where the people don’t go,

the soil tends to breed the most beautiful flowers

I promise to show, if you pass through this door.

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6 thoughts on “the ants in my veins

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