It Isn’t Just Injurious To Me

Each morning is a petal plucked
from precious
time.
Bright red petals painted in
fear, planted
right
side up. In sick sand,
death gardens
grow
thieves with love leaves,
drowned in
injury.

Each morning, I am a thief
taking,
taking,
taking,

one more petal,
one more bright red fear,

plucking at love to drown it in injury.

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6 thoughts on “It Isn’t Just Injurious To Me

  1. I really liked this poem. I have only looked through 5-6 so far, but I love the immediate impact of your word choices on the reader – at least this reader. I will be thinking about the words “plucking at love to drown it in injury” all day I think.

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