I will grip it with a firm hand,
and yank it out by the roots.
I will rub the soil between my fingers,
and smell the cold dirt on my hands.
I will let the thorns prick me.
I will watch my blood run from hand to elbow.
I will stand in the cold fall air and breath it in,
long deep breaths that hit me in the center of my gut.
I will break it into pieces so I can swallow it.
I will choke it down like a lump of pride in my throat.
And when I walk into the house I will still smell the crispness of the air on my skin.
So I stand in the shower, and watch the water turn brown from the dirt
and the blood,
and I press my face against the cold wet tile,
and let the steam roll over my skin,
let the water pelt my face,
let my hands wrinkle,
and my tears run free along side the water where they can go unnoticed.
And let the mirror fog so I can’t see the result of the day on my face.
