I sleep on beds of rocks and
rose bushes every night

and awake with cricks in my spine

and thorns in my side.

I never cease to be surprised by
these things.

Each morning is a shock when I
find slits in my skin and my
blood cooling on stone.

It’s like surprise parties, and
mistaking poison ivy for lowly
green leaves.

I wasn’t sacred.

They were only green leaves
just as rose bushes are
simply soft petals and pretty red.

Sometimes I confuse my blood with
those petals that rest in my bed
and on top my skin.

I was never good at learning
lessons or remembering that stove
tops stay hot long after you spin
them off.

(are those zebra’s stripes white
like angels or black like hell
and does your blood run red &
smooth like the petals of so many
flowers or blue and slow like
a trickling creek?)

I am a babbling brook
that you think you can
hear just faintly over the sound
of your rushing blood but aren’t
quite sure where the sound is
resonating from.

I am the rocks being smoothed
out under the water; my grey
cold skin being kissed by fish.

I am a statue covered in overgrown
vines that you never remember to
trim because you are scared that
the green leaves may be ivy and
poisonous and my fingers, much
like tendrils have teeth.

But like the daddy long
legs, I don’t have enough
strength to strike.

It is never enough it seems, to
just be green.

You must have flowers growing
from your pores and chlorophyll
seeping form the creases in your

I am old and wilting.
There is nothing left for me here,
but dry soil and tan leaves that
look like leather hung out to
dry in spring time.

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