poetic, it felt.

but not a positive poetic.

a poetic that could rip you to shreds
a forlorn sense of animosity rivaling the tides brewing in her eyes.
an emptiness that had torn the closing sides of ryker's personal pangea apart as depression had bitten her back. there was nothing.

nothing was felt as ryker wrapped this piece of porcelain imperfection in a blanket.
tears dried his cheeks as he ignored the blood underneath her fingernails.

she was a poet and a poet was simply a tortured artist who'd decided to express themselves on paper.

she didn't want to be an artist. she didn't want to be him.

depressing, it felt.