I'm not exactly in league with a lot of the writers here, but I figured I could use some criticism.
"Leaving it Behind--"
Changing things move inside me.
I shed my clothes, my skin, my hair --
they scatter like brittle
autumn
leaves.
My name, also;
moves up my esophagus,
spills from between my lips,
drops to the ground below,
a rotted,
black fruit,
a dirtied jewel.
Uprooted feet, tangled and white --
as bone, I say.
And o I shall become a ghost, growing into
nothing.
My fingers; lichen-laden branches
My thoughts; curling leaves, weighed heavy with dew.
My lips; cracked and dry, bleeding sap and unspoken goodbyes.
"Leaving it Behind--"
Changing things move inside me.
I shed my clothes, my skin, my hair --
they scatter like brittle
autumn
leaves.
My name, also;
moves up my esophagus,
spills from between my lips,
drops to the ground below,
a rotted,
black fruit,
a dirtied jewel.
Uprooted feet, tangled and white --
as bone, I say.
And o I shall become a ghost, growing into
nothing.
My fingers; lichen-laden branches
My thoughts; curling leaves, weighed heavy with dew.
My lips; cracked and dry, bleeding sap and unspoken goodbyes.