A dead tree stood there, leafless,
the crows came covering it with complete blackness,
a funeral of colors,
they made that dead tree look like a
black rose,
with thousands of dark feather-filled petals.
I rushed towards it
like a thirst-soaked bee,
I started taking the bottom of the tree apart
with two hands as dry as a pair of crackling leaves in the fall,
tugging out its roots,
and there strangled by the roots
I found my nectar-skinned heart,
I held it, I smelled it,
it’s perfumed with pain
just like the rest of my body, it’s perfumed with pain.
I wiped my honey tears with it,
until it became bloated with my sweet misery,
putting my solitude-sickened heart on the ground.
I watched it roll and burst like a red water balloon.
I crawled inside the hole I dug,
curled up in the dark,
waiting for the tree with its wooden fangs
to take my blood for water
and my flesh for soil.
I waited all covered in a dress of sap,
mud drying around my eyes
like an earthly eye shadow,
wounds opening along my spine,
this death is mine,
mine.
I am going to wear my frown,
like a rugged-edged crystal crown,
until it tears up my face,
until it brings me down.