Feb 29

Like scratching at a scab,
you destroy the natural boundary
between blood and infection,
reintroducing old arguments,
ones that were healing,
or at least neatly covered up,
and sure there was still slight
but now you sit there,
a tissue to your face,
feeling disgraced,
a futile cover-up that lasts
merely seconds,
trying to wipe away the
embarrassed your hands
don’t move in the same
steady circular motions as

Stuff I Like


Ask me anything