The remnants

were there all along-

wrapped inside my skull,

twined around every neuron.

 

In spring,

it awoke from its dormancy,

stretched its vines

to suffocate me further.

 

I’ll prune it back

and pull

what roots I can.

Maybe this time

 

I’ll get them before

late summer,

when the poison berries

are full,

 

bursting with

rotten propagation.

Waiting to sow the blight-

again.

 

Next year,

I’ll be clean

 

Love,

Your brain