ame sentinelle, murmurons

my lame-ass poetry.
mostly I talk about the ocean and depression.
I write for myself even if it's selfish.
enjoy



Forward
Backward

sleepless

he spat in my eyes, told me they were tears
called me a prize, called out my fears
he cut my skin and asked me why

I call him a phantom so I sound less crazy

I give name to my doubt, give depression a motive, call myself out

he worries me most nights, leaves my bed sleepless