from around the garden, in nooks and crannies where the snails and slugs and spiders create homes in the muddy dark. beneath rotting planks of trees from storms past and the wind that seduced them from the foundations of roots that twisted through the deep earth, around the worms that burrowed and the soil that held dear the decomposed bodies of the ones that breathed.
the garden where I made my rounds, where the words never came out the way they echoed in my head. the garden where I stopped to smell the overgrowth and rot. the spider webs, and flies that became liquid from the venom of their starved captors. I stopped to smell the blackness that the sun hid. I stopped to live out my humanity while I lost my words.