emetic

I was born clawing at my umbilical cord, hungry, aching, insatiable. I sleep with promises neatly pressed under my locked jaw, visions crushed in my fists. The bruises climb up my skin, dug out by swift and harsh nails. Patterns bloom from deep flesh — arachnid eyes tattered across limbs. For all observed and all recorded, a rotting flower finding solace in its entirety feed for the grass; an emetic for the heart.