Poppy Seeds
Hayden Smith

Wrinkled and grey, mashed into paste.
I still can’t recall my poetry on bathroom stalls,
adjacent to the poppy fields.
While you were green, caustic and holy,
I was grey, infected and moldy.
Sometimes, sometimes I don’t even feel my skin.
Opioid, strange how the meaningless can ruin lives.
Can enter intravenously, turning water to mud.
I suppose, oh, I never left home.
Ringing bells, my paper trail.
My memories leaked out my ears,
and my tragedy out my head.
Bring me to the fields,
lay me down, consoled by the pods.
Watch my eyes recognize only the ripe.
And I don’t even know, you don’t care.
I don’t want, you don’t need.
But while I tear, you forever bleed.