poem untitled #2

they say some people die at 25
but aren’t buried until 75

like cold, hard stone they merely
and that’s it.

the fire burning with fierce desire
is settled upon their ocean blue eyes,
suffocating the brilliant flames into
their laughter is polluted by their deep souls,
distant and dark.

but sweetheart, listen

the fire is not out, plenty of fresh, crisp air exists, just for you,

and your lungs will thank you,
for finally caring about yourself.

you are too young to feel this old,
and too wise to let yourself.

put down the blade that has opened your pale skin one too many times,
and let yourself consume something
other than water,
and you will feel
beautiful, as you are, with time.

I promise, my love, I promise upon heaven, and if I lie, dare I go to hell.


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