I feel soil in the pit of my stomach,
A seed planted without permission,
With no sun to grow, no water to drink,
I feel it rotting inside of me,
That flower, never grown, wastes away,
I feel it move and tug at my veins,
Pleading for water and sunlight,
But I must tell it to be quiet,
To be silent because he listens,
I tell my little flower to hold his cries,
because beyond those closet doors,
I sense his looming figure,
I sense it with every bit of me,
But it moves and tears me inside,
and I lust over a single tear, a single scream,
But I can't. I shiver. Breathe through my hand,
and curl into a ball, too afraid that my fear
will echo. I hush. I tremble. I bite my tongue.
Iron in my mouth, my throat closes, my
stomach bursts, I smell soil, my picture
now on a milk carton,
Not in my grave am I found
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 6:33 PM UTC
I feel soil in the pit of my stomach,
A seed planted without permission,
With no sun to grow, no water to drink,
I feel it rotting inside of me,
That flower, never grown, wastes away,
I feel it move and tug at my veins,
Pleading for water and sunlight,
But I must tell it to be quiet,
To be silent because he listens,
I tell my little flower to hold his cries,
because beyond those closet doors,
I sense his looming figure,
I sense it with every bit of me,
But it moves and tears me inside,
and I lust over a single tear, a single scream,
But I can't. I shiver. Breathe through my hand,
and curl into a ball, too afraid that my fear
will echo. I hush. I tremble. I bite my tongue.
Iron in my mouth, my throat closes, my
stomach bursts, I smell soil, my picture
now on a milk carton,
Not in my grave am I found
