He gardened without gloves
and died from rare bacteria
that ate him
from the inside out.
It got me thinking,
if the quiet rot
in a handful of soil
can mean the end,
how likely are you to be
the little death under my fingernails?
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery / 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
Poetry❝The calm in my marrow spoke in muted bursts of fireworks. I was born for explosions and trying to be less.❞ Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. Th...
