• poetrybydean 6w

    She creeps into your tent slowly.
    She knows she isn't welcome she knows she isn't holy.
    Gifts she always carries, offering shiny halos to every soul she swallows.

    Leaving grief in her wake you'd swear that's the only pleasure she ever aches.
    She knows she's hated, she's the truth her sister tries to cover. She's death why would anyone ever love her?