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Since birth and lifetimes before I have suffocated in the moat of your womb, sweltering and glutinous and illuminated only by the sting of a fluorescent hell. Your darling body is a discordant garden that cultivates the most rotten fruit. Why must you consume; why must you feed the shallow planter with your kindness the same intensity of a disquiet you cannot taste? Take heed; do not overfeed your pride. But you—you, you are completely without vainglory. You suffer and writhe in a careful anxiety. Your hands shake during the feeding. What frightens you? The gardener, or the garden that has fallen decrepit from your dreams of grandeur? Is the flower selfish to bloom away from you? Is the rose estranged to be loathed for the very nature of its thorns? Are the weeds to be blamed for their growth of justice, when it was your trembling hands that ripped them from their sanctuary? You grow life inside and out, but you quaver when it turns, overgrown and self-imposed, upon your tender intent.
Mind the teeth that carve out your womb.
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(July 17th, 2024.)
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Collection.
PoetryEvery poem that I have ever written in my designated poetry journal since the day I was eleven years old. Read at your own risk. 😎
