WHEN SUMMER WENT ASKEW

there is a dull pounding against my head, thud thud thud until it bounces off the hollow of my sky, ringing like the crow’s cry on summer’s evening. there is a judge with a gavel in his hand and with every thought of /i must give up/ he strikes a wooden mark, /this is where the world does not wait for you/, his gavel whispers, husky crackle amplifying until my head is flooded with sound waves.

there is a lava trail down my cheek.

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Author: pointilisms

poet | slytherpuff | infp | perpetually tired and fond of fluffy things

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