Poems from Jules Thurrott
His hands are rough against my palm as he traces the lines of his tattoo on my hand.
He smiles self consciously as he asks "Do you...
Dull tired numbness seeps into my bones
Cracking and breaking my beautiful home
Made of jade, bronze, imperial stone.
My fields are...
This is the only way you could love me
With my rotting body and frozen heart.
I'm sorry that I fail your expectations,
But I wasn't the...
A friend's voice echoes through the telephone
And that's wen I force myself to believe
That that small comfort really is enough.
I try...
His hands are porcelain plates
To beautiful to even touch.
I wonder when he'll start to break
And leave me here to gather dust.
When...