Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

Sophia Argyris

NO MALICE

I can hold you no more.
Your body is too stony,
not pliable, not lovable.
You won’t give warmth.
A distance dances in your eyes.

There’s some one living
there where I am dead,
she has no malice.
She doesn’t know she’s
turning you to stone for me.
Doesn’t know my insides
bleed a coldness.
Cruel in her innocence
she hides in your eyes,
with no malice.

I must grow fresh skin again,
fresh eyes and nails and hair.
Purge myself of yellow
and bruised bitterness.
Disperse, evaporate, and drift,
slowly growing my new limbs.

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