life and roses

Soon as I shake the petals from my hair and take a step from the loam,

I’m sent spiraling off the path so carefully plotted, 

for you’ve scattered thorns about the trail,

and stolen my shoes,

and though the trek isn’t impossible, 

I don’t have skin left to bleed today.

The problem is the rose bush you’ve planted in my stomach. 

I can feel it’s stems and leaves bursting up between my ribs, 

briars scraping all the way. 

It’s stolen my breath and rooted itself to my skeleton, 

wiggling into the smallest of fractures 

emphasizing and exposing 

all of my chips and cracks and precarious pulling-togethers.

You see, I’ve been bleeding for days.

My bones glow pink and my soul is stained crimson 

from the sweet berry life that’s been-- ever so delicately-- 

pouring from my chest. 

Friend,

you ruin me you ruin me you ruin me

Author's Note

October 23, 2021 at 2:26pm

(I've recovered since writing this.)