The Compost Heap SCAVENGER

It must be a strange hunger—
to covet a life you cannot carry,
to gnaw at the edges of someone else’s story
because your own pages are blank.

You tried to wear my skin,
to shrink my world until it fit your hands,
to push me out of my own name.
But here I am,
still living,
still thriving,
still moving the goalpost of becoming—
further, higher,
always far beyond your reach.

So you forage instead.
Sifting through what I’ve shed,
scraping at the compost of a life
that was never yours to hold.
You find only fragments,
rotting remnants,
the cast-offs I’ve already outgrown.

And still, you clutch them—
trinkets scavenged from the bin,
as though decay itself
could make you whole.

Enjoy the rot you’ve chosen.
That is the only feast
you will ever have of me.

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