If we plant things maybe I can atone for it

I change my hair with the wind.
And today it is blue because no other colour
will do, it is staining the wrinkles joins of my fingers
as though it refuses to let me go.
It is carved into my thighs in the shape of lies
once told, never forgotten.
Halves of my arms are brown
from pulling and lifting and climbing
for three days straight, the kind of work
I used to hate. Only now,
I bathe in the bruises and marks
left behind, these days are mine.


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