‘Smells Sweet, not unlike Poison’

I was an uncertain form floating in gloom,

stellar gestalt under a pear frond,

and you painted the branch

that I loved most

and we nurtured

and we matured

and became whole

through the time of our own

although distant as dust,

tethered through greys and through neons,

a singular dot, upon our cheeks,

beckons us back along these paths

that we entwine in.

The smog since consumed,

when the tree crows called for tolls,

and slumbering, restless, encapsulated muddy shoals,

and a strike from the dark.

Why? Why?

And your teeth only sunk deeper.

Rat poison. Open wound.

How do I make this venom clean?

And now it is a dance:

(in the way of wind and leaf)

pretend that you haven’t sawn the branch off,

package the poison in my pocket,

placate, place your words in my throat.

The place where we used to blend

now leaks sap and oozes oil,

tarnished; corrupt.

The forms who sit,

alongside the pear tree,

cannot see the carnage.

cannot feel the wet, ill produce

drip, drip, drip,

onto their own faces.

They say, “it is only liquid,

you must clean it up yourself…”

as it seeps into the throes of my nerves,

rattles my teeth from their home,

acid on an exposed vein.

The only nearby voice who recalls

my disheartened wails

in earnest, with healing,

is one that I met last Tuesday.

So I have learned ‘alone,’

have encountered attempted pacification

of my turbulence,

have shared a kindred spirit with duplicity.

Where do the branches meet,

I wonder?

Will I be at twig’s end

until time itself

heaves an exhausted sigh,

and wilts?

Or will I wilt first?


I’m very tired.

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