Stories

We were never going to work

Trying to stitch the others wounds with sweet words

When we had run out of thread to fix ourselves

Your words were wax wings that brought me closer to the sun

 

I should not have to remind you

Of how that story ended.

 

You are the slippery road on a stormy night,

And I am an accident just waiting to happen.

In my very own Pandora’s box I cherish what will never be

Alongside

The endless hope

Endlessly hoping

For a soft landing

For I have a fear of falling.

 

 

K. Thwaites

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