machete

before it is too late,
i want to speak to you from the tender places inside,
from my quiet islands that sing the lonely breezes when the moon shines in her fullness.

but, oh, these tangled vines of my interior keep me strangled in silence.

how can i break free, when my voice is stifled by these twisted branches of my past,
and my hands are bound by the overgrowth of too many neglected years?

i want to cut them out, to be free from their grasp,
to cultivate a new garden upon the fertile soil of these fallow fields.


--bruised orange