She ripped it up today like
petals that were pressed to
her lips from a love half-imagined,
half-stolen.
She shredded a door to death
with two impossibly simple hands...
How many times can one write
the world ending then erase
all evidence of the thought?
Dusk hunched over potential;
she could've set the wastepaper
basket on fire, but that one flame
would've kept menacing,
would've burned the house down,
along with the news of seeds
that would heal instead of destroy.
And this is how she knows the
power of words, like bitter herbs,
her heart swallowed toxicants
long before her tongue.
In cursive ink she chooses another
day to speak, another chance
to believe her roots haven't stopped
growing.
