The soil around my roots
has become too compacted,
waterlogged, suffocatingly so,
leeching the warmth from my leaves.
Heart rot has really set in now.
But I am not a tree—
I can run and ask questions.
Whatever keeps me here,
I allowed to spread.
So I go to seed
as the ground remembers
how to forget me.
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...
