Lauren Poole

Perhaps writing is a funeral service all its own. An admittance that this is no longer flesh and blood, but paper and ink. This is the rendering of our love into the world of dead things. This is flowers on the grave.

let me tell you about the dream in which
you told me you were lying when
you said you’d stopped loving me.

you know too much to make a bomb shelter out of a boy again.

Thought.is

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