Creative Writing Poetry


The lines are still there, in front of my eyes, striping the entirety of the dim room with black and white:

My closet, the door, the duvet cover, my sister sleeping –

Words impressed upon my sight

With not an end to them in sight,

Superimposed on everything I turn to.

I can’t. Cannot. Be like this for so long.

I’ve been killing me, ever since then.

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