These are the hands of something ungreen.
Yes, I want to die, but all I have been able
to do is kill, again and again, so I hope to plant myself,
dirt hands into dirt making dirt body a succulent,
something manageable, but needing management.
I forget to water myself and my plants suffer,
I forget to tend to my roots and I displace,
I am dirty but am not kept for, not sprawled after.
When there is direct light you will not find me,
though I need it. Plant me is a better way of saying
I want to be buried and remembered for it.
Bury me is a way of saying end me, make this final,
watch as I create myself again every year, something
that blooms over and over again. No one asks
a perennial when they will stop themselves,
but no one knows when I will be happy with where I grow
so I must be dying or sinning but what is the difference.
Poetry was a mistake, but if you mistake enough
it becomes a habit or an intention. Mistake me into a girl
enough and I will become myself green, something with cells
rooting out of me, something that will last well after
your voice leaves you, well after my voice dissipates into
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