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


Sophia  Argyris



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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