I am yet to write my favourite poem, yet to be one .
And if it is today, that I do so. Let it be.
The lines would likely consist of the day when my limbs turned into the branches, branches from which discouraged poets hung. The day, when the metaphorical salads, were on my fingers, to enter my mouth, and travel through the oesophagus to the intestines tampered by digesting words. The day when I held the needle pointing inwards to my chest, I felt
the hypothalamus of my brain secreting oxytocin toward my bloodstream and spine. And when today, I sat to write my favourite poem but forgotten the pen and paper. I formed an imagery, blurry but detectable. I finally, did it. I wrote my favourite poem, on my vandalized skin, and today my veins are the network of words connected by the rhymes.