#inkflows network

oftentimes i bite my own tongue to ease the ache of my jaw

my gnawing, gnashing anger ripples hurt in all direction

i look at my reflection and i see bones haunted by the unwanted memories 

white luminescent moon-flesh gone mad with un-fed yearning

my own blood burns me 

eats through my skin like acid to melt away the flesh of me

soon we'll see what these bones are really made of

how their color looks beneath natural light

and if they can carry the weight of their own meaning 

i do not aim for self-destruction but i dont think i was built to last

i try to learn how to let storms temper my tender heart

but cannot find any strength in my suffering

each passing blow tears another piece of me away

rain-soaked and half-starved and chest pushed out 

ribs curled forward to escape the heaving of my useless lungs

did the screaming ever stop or am i just used to the sound

[Text ID: I. Is there something that needs to change?

What needs to change is hiding in the fruit

In the stringy sweetmeat.

each bite pushing plum flesh

against gum. you find your teeth gnawing the pip

that only uproots itself to an attentive hand.

That Seed can grow some place else.

Carelessly litter, it will

lapse into the tides of earth

whose palm coaxes out fragility.

germination,

on a birthing blanket of grass knitted to weeds

promising to cradle the fissures the way the heart once did.

The Fruit

on the mouth

gnawing the pip,

gnawing the knuckle,

a kiss lying between your palm & lips &

in the sugar grain on your tongue

much sweeter

& useful,

as it already tastes.

II. Will there be flowers?

Only once the sun promises gentleness to the leaves

What does a flower know of comfort, of being cradled?

There is only ever the light

slipping its fingers beneath the peduncle gentling the flower to its philtrum

To grow into that bowl

enveloping the globe is not the same as falling

As being plucked

or pruned