A Little Green Toxin

Written by Gabriella Troy
Art by Markus Spiske


There’s a little something green
growing just beneath my chest.
I water it every time I look at your dress
and hear the smile in your sing-song voice.

If only you were wicked,
it would wither away to dirt,
but now it has a stem,
and no one likes my color.

The shoot snags against my skin,
but it never reaches yours:
I am faulty scar tissue
and you are a golden-skinned newborn.

I thunder and it flowers
nasty shades of self-inflicted scrapes.
Its petals waft fumes
and I breathe greedily.

I need an exterminator,
but I want a whole garden.
My flowers will grow
and yellow my tissue.

Of course I get carried away
by your friendly wave;
my roots were too insecure,
so I sprout a better bud.

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