The tree sustaining me
has withered, the leaves
dry and dark, pressing under
my skin, their urgency
bruising me from the inside
and I tried to make it worth it
but each night I slip a little
longer into madness, I have
contained this demon, for so
long, it's body has
slipped into ashes, sunk into my
veins, dormant, the rest of
my world sees a face healed
and only I see the scars,
still bloody and stretched,
I can taste the poison,
the bile in the back of my throat
that killed the garden
and is waiting for something
I can't explain, and I feel like
I am waiting for my immediate failure.
Author notes
Don't be critical of my word/line spacing, or my capitalization. That's just me. This references some other poems, so you may not get it. It's personal anyway.
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