If you were to peel back

The layers of my skin

For a peek of what lies beneath,

You would find a tangle of wild roots,

Dense, and untamed, and telling

The story of my home.
 

Knotting and merging, and

Twisting and looping,

An intricate lace spirals around

My bones, whispering tales from my childhood

And sprouting little flower buds that blossom across my skin,

Which you would see as the jagged lines of white stretch marks,

And the dull pink and caramel spots of scars if you observed my skin intently.
 

If you came close enough, and nuzzled your face against my neck,

You would be able hear the clamour of

My ancestry within the riotous halo of curls at my crown.

They bloom in tight ringlets from the roots atop my head,

And bellow battle songs

Of toothless combs and brushes.
 

If I were to hold your hand for long enough,

Maybe the roots that emerge from my fingertips would entwine intimately with those sprouting from yours.

If you were to hold me against your chest long enough,

Perhaps the lacy roots from my ribcage would entangle with those spiralling around yours,

So you’d be able to hear the murmurs of my memories,

And I, every old story told with every beat of your heart.
 

Hold me close,

And maybe you will find a corner within my untamed roots within which to stay.

Hold me close,

And maybe I’ll find another home within your arms.

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