I felt the sting of nightshade bubble up inside me,
Once more, I cough up the bloodied Solanaceae.

Purged into my lap, budding with flesh, 
Pallid petals ripe with Persian plum mottle, gored and fresh.

Racking my body in waves of herbaceous excruciation,
Crawling up my throat, clawing in botanical mutilation.

Lain out on the creased stone, 
My macabre of a garden is blotted with the watercolour of my own.

Weary from retching, I stare at my withering ***** with distain,
I shrivel internally at the burden of mopping each and every stewed stain.

But I know I must clean the mess I've forged,
Because its nobody apart from me, who impulsively gorged.