I am the hydra.

My head detatched, three new
ones spring forth. See the splatter,
the ground speckled red

in my grey and teal office? I am
the hydra, multiplying where others
die. You knew this, my own private

myth. You knew my only skill

was also my biggest weakness. You held
my head, you sawed thru my neck with
a dull kitchen knife, and left it

hanging from a thick pink rope

of flesh. Watch the color drain
from my skin, watch the glaze form
on my eyes, I cannot grow back

what hasn’t been taken away.


Filed under Musings, poetry

3 responses to “Hydra

  1. Lk

    If this isn’t graphic, I don’t know what is.

  2. I’m egotistically, grotesquely in love with it. I hate it when I love my own stuff…

  3. Your stuff is deserving of love.

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