Slowly, She’s Falling Into Disarray
TW: Depression — This is me trying. every thought i cry turns to — sorrow i used to glean. every word i bleed turns to — sentences shrouding me again. poetry — fazing my lucid senses. prose — flawing my flower-fences. yet every second i waste turns to affairs with a sinking phrase and, chaos in a cigarette case. — v.xx.mmxxii Would like to thank the editors of Move Me Poetry for taking time to dive deep and offer suggestions to help make the piece better. It really means a lot. Thank you!