• Cole Stolte


You were the quiet

of an empty syringe

ready at any moment to either heal me,

or slowly and addictively kill me.

You were the quiet

of broken glass in the street.

You showed evidence of past abuse,

but also had potential to pop other's tires.

You were the quiet

of embers.

Always ready to suck the oxygen from around you

only so that you could reignite yourself.

Now you are the quiet

of a used noose.

Smugly swaying in the wind

without a care in the world,

awaiting the touch

of your next victim's throat.

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