Sit.

I am brittle
I am bruised
I am barefoot
I don't want to feel used.

I am sleepwalking
I am avoiding
I am demolishing
I just want to feel something.

I am livid
I am remorse
I am smitten
I can't handle the choice.

The ropes bust
jerking at the wrist,
the hands collapse
fearing they will twist.

Exhaustion is welcome
inviting the drug to seep,
plumping the vines
it claims its provocation to weep.

Rolling down the hill
blurring momentary escape
she then plants below
where she wishes she could still grow.