bougainvillea becomes me
with its shiny leaves and flamingo-tinted petals.
i feel them reaching through the cuts upon my knees;
their thorny bits 
   sprout from my scalp
      jut from my gums,   
         pierce my skin,
and i think, 
what did i ever do to deserve this?
but it’s the vine with its 
   pretty outside and 
prickly insides
that deserves me, it would seem as i
tilt my neck back
and let the branches outstretch my
hand —
   fingernails bitten down to the quick —
reaching for a future that only leaves me sick.