every imperfection,
every error,
every piece of me,
that was out of place.
My thoughts calmed.
My chest settled.
That beating inside me slowed
because it knew
I was erasing myself
little by little,
until all that would exist
was my little gray bones.
Who knew,
ghosts could be
so
l
o
u
d.
55
Poppy Wells
I existed as an imperfection.
Something that would never be perfect.
You could unwind me,
break me apart,
piece by piece,
but you could never fix me,
because some things
were just meant to be
broken.
