No Cure, but Death

The earth
is trying to
cleanse herself
of us.

we are
infection
she cannot
rid,easily.

in attempts
to survive;

she motions
self-inflicted
natural disaster.

only 
Able to
rip parts
of us off.

these
gaping
wounds
of her
moving,

but
forever in
the same
place.

dear,
amputee’d
host,

we
live
through
you,

suck you
dry
of all
nourished
cells;

call it
survival.

splayed
across skin
of you, our
leprosy-kind.

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