thorns impale my fingers with every berry I grasp
thorns which leave my life’s essence to leak
to trickle down my flesh,

painting my fingerprints a vibrant crimson
it brings me joy to see that stained flesh
for it means I’m alive

it tells me that within me a heart beats
that constant convulsion of muscle propelling my essence,
giving fuel to my mind

is it also that vitae, that blood, that essence which fuels my soul?
is it something else entirely?
something untouchable, intangible, unknowable?

I prick my finger on those thorns
and consider how to feed my soul


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