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Emma Crowe

There’s a beehive hanging from my uvula. There’s a spider spinning webs between my skull and brain tissue. There’s poison ivy cooking around my intestines. There’s a chandelier of cocoons cemented to my ribs. There’s red ants convening under my tongue. There’s weeds emerging from the disks in my spine.

There’s a whole ecosystem spreading across my surface — foliage replacing follicles.

There’s no need to put up a fight. The seeds were there before I was. At least what was once flesh is now

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