sometimes i wonder if the problem is me –

if i might be the poison that i taste in the wine
made by my own hand and poured for myself ;

if i somehow tainted all the fruit
when i disturbed the rotting earth
and sowed their seeds
so carelessly
in the graveyard i call a garden,

hoping to grow something sweet
from the bitter remains i buried
in the yard when it got too hard
to stomach the stench of failure ;

if it was the result of my own tainted hands
(splitting and scarred from all the work– )
bleeding into the dirt and deceiving the roots
(the work of putting myself back together– )
that were too young and...