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.


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