Rooted 

My words for you are always the same.
I fill them full and place them on
my tongue then swallow. Every breath
I’m taking carries this weight. 
Travels past the trachea, 
squeezing rings out as you go down.
I don’t know how you soaked the roots 
but you’re in the trunk of my chest,
four branches spread across. 
Gather the foliage I try to shed.
You burrowed so deep, I feel the holes 
as I breathe. Feel the spaces you leave. 
Heart flutters sound like wings.
Lungs holding on, taking in but never out. 
I’m trying to get you out,
trying to move on.
Nameless unless I dig. 
Stare at the soil of my skin. You 
dissipate like fog, confusing me each time. 
I can’t tell if I’m digging you out or up.
It all just feels the same.

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