because while some truths lend themselves to equations, others are best described in verse

anesthetic

green and wet
and incongruent,
the smell of untame clover
permeates a crying earth,
a skin already saturated
with oversweet good-byes.
overgrown, overcast,
the world outside my window
soothes the rough edges of me
in soft viridian coolness,
numbs my sunburnt soul.
and yet, and yet,
the roots go deeper than this,
trawl back through yesterdays
and a hurt not yet assuaged,
tendrils draw further in,
pry apart dark soils, stones and disillusions,
encircle the core of me
and gently
squeeze.

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