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

the air in my lungs feels stuffed

like a vapid windowless room

it sends vines through my head

probing each receptor for pain

slows down my heart and its heart

yanks at my eyelids to drown