(no subject)

[bleedthiscolour]

coming home
is never
anything
but bad
news
& i am hanging on
by a
fucking thread
walking vacant
& weary eyed
through the fields
of my
childhood
now frost bit
& covered
with snow
i miss
the ones
i knew
when i
was young;
the sun
tinged
days
of lying
drunk
on laughter
in deer tick
grass.