[today]Jan 30th, 2007 6:54:35 am - Subscribe

you turn
your face
away from me;

say I make you
sick -

I make you sick.

and with only words,
you make me into
the thorn.

I, the illness
that twists your stomach;

I,
the venom
that poisons your breath;

I speak as
your treacherous,
torturous disease:

oh, god,
what I'd give to be
free of your veins.

oh, my enemy and creator,
the thorn in your skin

would die to
return to its vine
and just be.

[I am]prickly.