‘Hope’ isn’t a dainty or delicate thing—
she is blood and grit,
her voice of symphonic echoes
and screaming doubt
with hot breath festering on necks.
Her nails make home in skin,
dragging bodies from bed just to spite the thought thereof.
She forces her way through veins with scorching resistance
until the only choice left is to embrace her.
‘Hope’ was never beautiful—
How bold of you, calling her such a superficiality.
Porcelain Prose 
Love this!!