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.