Your words wrap around my fingers
Preventing the blood flow
like tangled vines,
they seep into my veins,
tiptoe up my sleeve and through my bloodstream.

three times
I’ve been caught with nerves.

They creep beneath the heart.

five times
                         I’ve stitched the seams of your name.

Your words slip into the gray matter inside my skull,
they attach themselves to neurons.
A television shock wave of static thrill.

seven times

I’ve been bound to your roots.

Tight knit bushes of thorns encircle my rib cage,
I feel you in my core.
I peel back the leaves but

nine times

    I’ve detached your stems knowing they’d grow back.

I’ve stripped dead ends

I’ve watched them wilt and retire,

I’ve clenched the withered leaves and petals,

ten times

Your words were the thorns that thrived as a hedge
overwhelming me.

And
ten times

I’ve grown;
far too lifeproof for you to breathe me in again.