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a leaf
بسم الله الرحمن الرحيم
The green of the walls has soaked into me, seeped out of me.
My yellow thermos is a green thermos now.
My clothes are green, the world tilts away from blue and away from yellow, meets my eye in the middle, green.
To cut, to craft, to roar with my hands from that ravid crumple of my soul, I am lured to the string of my bow, the needle’s point passing between fibers, the rhythm of my bo.
You were sweet, dulce, drip of honey on tongue-tip, fructal fragment melting.
I am a water, a life, a sprout of spring leaves on a barren branch.
I am green, small, fast-growing and numerous.
I am the drip of dew-rain that kisses a leaf tip.
I am too the leaf tip and the vein, the flush of spring sap in a maple tree.
All of these, polluted.
All crushed and cut and swept into a landfill.
Broken, heart and throat, buried in the rubbish.
He was a bite, a bitter twist, a probing question meant to slap and sting, a trauma.
I cried into my pillow, I fought in my sleep, I ached somewhere lost and far-deep.
I was wrapped around the Scream.
It is swallowed into my belly, sprung and branched to every vein from that horror-seed, so there is no blood without Scream.
Bashing banging shouting noising ringing slamming crashing throbbing —
And little me crying, hiding, aching, soaking it all up and shaking with the tremendor.
Brrrrrrrrrreia.
A vibration of violence, bones.
The bones themselves became a singing, searing energy.
The blood is green, sipped from the Scream tree’s nectar.
Lzzzzzzzzeia.
It grows tall and deep.
I cannot be soothed, as rocking will not soothe a baby’s hunger.
Everything you try is a rocking for my soul-starvation.
The scream is an intensity that grips me, eats me, replaces me.
There is hardly anything left as I grow bolder and brighter.
They all see a sweeter smile and hear me ramble tramble.
But I am full of scream, not me.
Where is my skin and liver, my lungs and spleen?
The Scream replaces me.
It is now what makes my gall and blood, what drinks my oxygen and ablutions.
So I am it.
I am the green.
The green of the walls has soaked into me, seeped out of me.
My yellow thermos is a green thermos now.
My clothes are green, the world tilts away from blue and away from yellow, meets my eye in the middle, green.
To cut, to craft, to roar with my hands from that ravid crumple of my soul, I am lured to the string of my bow, the needle’s point passing between fibers, the rhythm of my bo.
You were sweet, dulce, drip of honey on tongue-tip, fructal fragment melting.
I am a water, a life, a sprout of spring leaves on a barren branch.
I am green, small, fast-growing and numerous.
I am the drip of dew-rain that kisses a leaf tip.
I am too the leaf tip and the vein, the flush of spring sap in a maple tree.
All of these, polluted.
All crushed and cut and swept into a landfill.
Broken, heart and throat, buried in the rubbish.
He was a bite, a bitter twist, a probing question meant to slap and sting, a trauma.
I cried into my pillow, I fought in my sleep, I ached somewhere lost and far-deep.
I was wrapped around the Scream.
It is swallowed into my belly, sprung and branched to every vein from that horror-seed, so there is no blood without Scream.
Bashing banging shouting noising ringing slamming crashing throbbing —
And little me crying, hiding, aching, soaking it all up and shaking with the tremendor.
Brrrrrrrrrreia.
A vibration of violence, bones.
The bones themselves became a singing, searing energy.
The blood is green, sipped from the Scream tree’s nectar.
Lzzzzzzzzeia.
It grows tall and deep.
I cannot be soothed, as rocking will not soothe a baby’s hunger.
Everything you try is a rocking for my soul-starvation.
The scream is an intensity that grips me, eats me, replaces me.
There is hardly anything left as I grow bolder and brighter.
They all see a sweeter smile and hear me ramble tramble.
But I am full of scream, not me.
Where is my skin and liver, my lungs and spleen?
The Scream replaces me.
It is now what makes my gall and blood, what drinks my oxygen and ablutions.
So I am it.
I am the green.
