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i feel the presence of her yellow stench on the tip of my tongue, and my eyes follow her as she ubiquitously tears at generous hands and leaves them bleeding without care.

laying seed after seed onto sinless grounds, she lets them tear past the green until there's nothing but more of her rotten self: spreading. growing. rising. the harder i try to tamp it under my feet, the more i unwittingly give her way to turn me into her new anchor.

her good, enslavement of many.

❝our good,❞ she corrects insidiously and leaves the other part unheard.

she tells me there aren't enough stars in the sky. not enough water in the sea. not enough grains of sand in a desert.

not enough oxygen in the air.

and when i wonder if it's her cavernous mouth, in perpetuum, that makes her, and i, believe there is never enough, i say nothing.

because if greed is an unfaltering disease, i've been a willing host.

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