by Heather Hammerstrom
Still I bleed as I watch the dire my naked hand endures. Daring not darn a forbidden glove, it’s smart from the scoundrelous much, much to familiar thorns of a bloom, that reveal no signs of surrender, yet perpetually gnaw at the palm, fiercely resolute at defending any hint of scabbing. Their bite sits it’s purpose on a throne just behind my furling brow, my eyes step close to it’s stem, riding it to a deceivingly firm foundation that is actually riddled with fractures made from untruths. My mind begins it’s ritualistic, frantic digging, sifting through soil, seaking each gnarled root’s birth, lost in the demented belief that to reveal their beginnings gives chance to wield ones sword a swift release. But tis a ruse a downward glance sounds defeat, for from my soles they first spring. Kicking and stomping to break free only tears my skin, I still bleed Black and white.
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