i used to think my poetry
needed nourishment to grow
so i read it faded pages
dredged up from down below,
i fed it ink stained paper
i crumpled then straightened
till near disintegration.

i spoke to it slowly
recited poems softly
considered it a child
rooted inside me,
a cluster of cells
separate, but of me.

i slept on my side instead of my belly
checked my breasts for swelling,
even gave up coffee,
but nothing immaculate
ever came to cleanse me.

when i found my fingers clenching
fists around spiral-spined notebooks
i tucked the pages in
and put my pen to sleep.

when i found my nails scratching skin
instead of blue lined sheets
i shook my pen awake
and bled energy to leaves.

it's strange to think
such naive a thought
as that this art could ever be
one easily shrugged off.

for now i know so intimately,
have kissed the floor
and clutched the feet
of the parasitic entity
that extends so far
beyond intended reach.