poetryyyy

23 Pins
·1mo
It wasn't with knives my heart he tore, when he brought me to death's door. It wasn't his hands that had me slain - but he had killed me all the same. Cold and callous with no remorse, he turned me to a walking corpse. And I am imprisoned in his pain, while he without the slightest blame - free to do it again. ( Prefect Crime by Lang Leav)