My home is a black forest—
a jungle of threads, rooted in warm flesh.
I cling to a tree.
And when tsunamis fall—when fingers scratch,
and earthquakes rumble across skin—
I hold.
I never let go.
The blood is sweet.
We multiply in silence.
Cling.
Suck.
Cling.
Suck.
We know no other way.
Then comes the poison.
The burn.
The scent of death in shampoo.
And we fall.
But not all.
Some of us escape.
We bury our seeds.
Wait in silence.
And when the chemicals fade,
we return.
Cling.
Suck.
Cling.
Suck.
Caught, crushed—no hesitation.
But still we return.
We don't know why we cling.
We don't know why we die.
But it is all we've ever done.
Here lies our truth—
not written in stone,
but in red welts and broken claws:
We were born to cling.