wounds. seed-bearing organisms.

 

a convulsion that breathes both despair and hope permeates my skin

[as i strive to achieve the paradoxical effect of making myself trivial].

but the wounds are fresh, propagating.

insatiable.

and did she tell you that when i bleed only seeds are to be seen?

plant me, cover me with the dead putrid leaves we hide under the conscious and the tangible.

tie me with the red thread with the pretty shine with the right light.

and i shall become flowers. flowers that are wounds that are flowers.

flowers nonetheless. 

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