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the thorn and thigh

the mound of ivy and thorns i ripped from the ground yesterday lay outside my door

last night the vines wrapped round my ankle, careening their way up my calf 

they crept and crept, higher and higher up my pale winter leg

the naked wineberry brambles sought to make a potion out of me

the hairs of their stems sunk into my supple skin, nibbling every inch

coarse, tiny daggers bit into the flesh of my thigh,

and the little bastards drank me all up. 

my sweet blood for their water.

my nutrients for their concoction.

vining their way closer to my vulva

vying for more sustenance - they paused

i may keep that - for myself - for now

the vines retreat back towards the ground

each thorn plucking itself free, liberating my limbs

as they crawl back down to the pile of clippings in my back yard under the oak tree

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