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
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
