This was the poem that inspired me to get more involved with poetry. It was written one and a half years ago, when my grandfather died. The Rafflesia, a parasitic flower, is often nicknamed the corpse flower, it lacks roots, leaves and stems and lives entirely within its unwilling host vine.
a Rafflesia in my chest, a name plucked from forgotten roots, its scent of decay choking me as it blooms.
Underneath, where no soil lives; you coil, a whisper of discomfort, flesh and flower intertwining, a bond forged in the quiet ache of birth.
First nothing, then everything. The air grows heavy, moldy with memory, the smell of life rotting, a cruel reminder of your shape.
You do not bloom like the others; you erupt violently, a rupture in the rhythm of me.
Each day, I feel you grow, a mother's pride and terror, wrestling in my chest,
I long to tear you free, but each time I touch you, it cuts me deeper.
I stand on the edge of rupture, like an empty shell housing decay, your bloom a shadow, and your unwilling host held in your grip, as grief's enduring slave.
