In this heart, with its walls cracking,
paper thin promises fall apart and
I’m showered, the ugly. Truth.

I miss you but my capillaries cannot
Deliver enough blood to my dilapidated heart where it seeps, the ugly. Truth.

Truth that you’re my first, that I’ve died, that I might die, that I’m dying, that the ugly lives in me.

Another WriterB Original.

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