What principles define how you live?

distilled but not clarified

I don’t think I have principles. I have exhaustion that won’t leave and plants that teach me how to survive anyway.

I macerate loss in alcohol. Extract it. Wear it on my pulse points. Vetiver for what’s buried. Oakmoss for the years my hands held a body that couldn’t hold itself.

I live horizontal most days. Chinatown metal doors slamming above me, cilantro and ginger climbing through the floor. I don’t apologize for staying still.
The plants know: some things only bloom after burning. Some roots grow around obstacles and call it living.
I don’t resolve my poems. I don’t resolve my grief. I refuse to make either one neat.

Belladonna is poisonous and beautiful. I understand why.