I can't escape the brambles in my chest.
I cut them down but soon,
they all grow back.
It's punishment for what?
I won't confess to threats of violence,
with poison fruit
and fatal tracks I can't escape, these brambles
in my chest
confine me to a foregone consequence.
From every angle
spiny limbs attack as punishment.
I won't confess.
Go grow bouquets of garbage on my breast and fields of homeless beggars on my back that can't escape the brambles in their chests: among the destitute I'm at my best.
With severed heart and tongue, I'll raise a glass to punishment and what I don't possess.
Refuse to cry, refuse to feel bereft,
accept that you can never get me back.
I can't escape.
These brambles in my chest
are punishment for what I won't confess