I have little suicides
running up and down my arms.
Ivy on a mansion wall;
chaotic beauty, generating
new buds each passing week.
The more I cut them back,
the faster they grow,
coming in thicker than before,
choking one another, racing
toward an end they do not know.
Always vying for position,
for sunlight, for glory,
they go on regenerating
when one is left behind to die.
Crawling up my flesh,
they speak in whispers,
tighten their grip,
daring me to slit their tiny
throats once again.

written: unknown – likely 2005 – 2007





Subscribe For Free!



Contact Me

Say Hi. Request a print. Start a conversation. Ask me a question. Love hearing from people. 


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

You may use these HTML tags and attributes:

<a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>