mochi-egg

I've got an open sore. I'm bleeding on my bedsheets folding conviction to somehow make the ends meet. There's no point in sleep; it's fluttering and brief. Lately, she's sick of counting dead sheep, and I see that look you get when you think that it's my last breath. You've met death. You wear each encounter like a cheap dress its not your fault that the questions still itch my skin, and I pick at the scabs that I hope to find the answers in. They never come. I'm left to waste away into no more than a bag of bones, words I wouldn't say. I chase my dreams with medicine. I'll be okay one day. There was a storm that shook the house-- didn't h...