there is ivy and
it grows without a root
my hair is grey in slivers
like snakeskin and I am Medusa
I will turn you to stone
or, if I am kind, marble
my nails will defile
concoct
destroy
but on you I take pity
your lips on my hand make my claws retract
suddenly I feel the migraine
(hear its whirring noise)
as I turn to stone
