Swallowing poison

Fingers laced with scars reach again for the whirling illusion of warmth, therein lies the caustic tongue of doubt, rejection and apathy. Therein is the lead wrought ballasts which drown her again and again, sweet illusion like novacaine blinding her senses to the pain which will follow. It did before and soon it will again.

Yet the fingers fooled by the banshee’s ruse will be crushed and her growth stunted. Our words are scorned, as fools hold no value to the wisdom of our words.