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