The rot of my xylem dissolves into soil, my bones are made whole. The woods call my name, and I unfurl against the phalanges of your fingertips, the lips that mimic the opening of petal tips. Resurrection – weeds discarded, Our Father. Wet matter softens my skin into transparency, dilutes the blue misery to be made anew, still burning fossil fuel. Powered by the light, whole sunrises in irises, polluting tree shades, golden fade. My lung tubes expand, and I am no longer destined for doom. I shed the skeletal structure of unholy ligaments, yellowing filaments, a rebirth in the eyes of Mother Sun. This is how it feels to reach out and have the greed gratified – just because I am starving does not mean I am undignified. The tulips bloom in secret, I keep it, the magnificence they exude. I repel bugs craving to bite into leaves, and I detach my roots from the waste of my compost heap. I feast. I cut off a slice of the sky and I eat. This is it. I may never be fully separated from my grief, but I grow taller.
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Love, Erica x