I’m pulling the string but everyone has left the grave-site.
I’m a bleeding vegetable,
overgrown in the crate of a ground
stuck with splinters in a shallow, ringing hole
You sealed me with a broken shovel
and I heard you swearing
about getting f-ked stuck with splinters
Queen Anne was my witness but she said nothing
because we know you’d hear me no
better than before
Abject I wish I
were a termite,
the solution to rust because I’m pulling the string
I’m trapped and I was vulnerable
We were the death of me, feign and be happy
you told me
but now I’m
losing
air…
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem