About

I am from wilted roses and half-finished stanzas

and words that bloom from

the garden of my heart like overgrown wisteria,

tangled in my bloodstream,

lines of poetry twisting into veins:

this writing sings in my lungs,

spills like saltwater from my eyes,

an addiction just as much as it is an art;

poetry, after all, tastes like wine,

staining my mouth crimson,

lacing my wrists in bracelets of ink,

the words cascading from my hands

until I wear papercut lips and bruised fingertips

the same way wildflowers wear their petals.

this writing is inextricably mine.

 

Poetry