Sadie Gugliotta

The Garden of Deception
Sadie Gugliotta

Verdant moss licks my feet, buzzing with

dwelling insects and gripping grace. 

The leather-skinned lips

of blistered seed pods

burst

with burgeoning kernels of life,

divining this their scene of

debauched conception - 

thwarted by the swelling deprivation

of drought.

The clawing branches of judicious trees

grab me from both sides,

staining my arms with acid purple vitriol and

pulling me 

apart. I fall,

knees weak, and spill insecurities

that seep like water - vulnerabilities swept up and transformed by the

lilting whispers of the

wind. Some cynical call - to reshape, to reform,

to repent

for the sins of my body. 

To become the woman I should be.

This place is velvet-drawn and mystical like

a sacred text. I writhe

under its surveillance,

its careful corrosion. It eats my ambition,

feeding me self-doubt and sewing

fears of inadequacies in my hair like garlands,

hiding spear-tipped thorns within the ropes of my braids.

But still, I hope:

To fulfill what is hallowed in the nature of this land;

To be beautiful.

The feathers of lush green ferns graze my skin,

and thick vines

hold veined leaves that promise

embryonic fruit - flesh unbroken and petal-spun with purity,

dense black pits at their core.

My fingers pull apart the bodies of pulp and syrup as they grow, juices gathered

by the false support of curved palms, as I take each seed in my hands,

and feel my own heart pulsing within them.

But still, I eat.

And I forget.

My stomach echoes with the emptiness of virtue,

and I search for another part of myself

to consume.