Disown

I still bleed, cut from her tree.   
I’m sick again, I say. 
But he tears me out. 
Her voice withheld adds years in bed
since the cutting of bond begins. 
 The bones of my arms are broken.
He blocks me from mom’s phone. 
When stems start starving their leaves,
dying is some kind of agony. 
But somehow I survive.
 
 
Bombfire, January 2021