I starved myself down to the marrow in the narrow hope that my demons would find these bones to skinny to lick clean. Oh, but these monsters found rooms in my ribs and homes in my heart to languish fed fat on despair.
There is a ghost of who I used to be who lays her head on the underside of my pillow and whispers wicked lies behind my eyes as I dream.
I curled my leaves and starved myself to the root to deny the pain of blooming, to pollute. and what I found was that the sun didn’t shine much light and the flowers didn’t look as bright and the earth didn’t taste just right and I learned that the sun needs me and the flowers […]
a plant’s roots, pot-bound, grow to the shape of that which kills it gnarled comfortably below the surface. plant me in the garden where I may feel the sun and rain though I’ll bear the scorch and storm. these hungry wild vines of mine were meant to spread.
I am not a stranger to the rain. I am not a hard-packed desert who at first storm-break will flood, reject the course of life that comes most naturally. I am soft enough to accept the storm without spilling– to soak sorrows into these old-growth forest bones and milk the life from gathering clouds to birth tender shoots reaching for the sun.
The wrongness of winter rain on fresh snow– where do the snow fairies go in this world promised frozen?
but to pull myself together now would be to squeeze a palm of sand to stone without water, the healing crush of tears
Do not ask the sun who she shines for– though she illuminates the shadows of men her light is the product of a fire in her belly that cannot be extinguished or captured– she runs through fingers like gold.
A long-forgotten wick, lit, burns fast in melted wax
This skin I’m in tastes of freedom I will not shrink for your desire