When petals turn to talon,
and your roots, once entangling my limbs,
twist inwards and impale the flesh betwixt,
where do I roost?
The moon can shine milk and stardust on skin of dappled violets,
where the sweet nectar of a creature so contorted lays christened in bars of violent barb,
wings lain in a pattern like a seraph’s charge,
and the beast cannot burn the burden without also boiling this blood.
The trap was set with nooks of autumnal whispers, wisps of hope and defiance of fate,
the echolalia of cotton fear beading upon our foreheads pressed together,
underneath your grandfather’s cold leather coat,
in the parking lot of a layman’s god,
at eleven fourteen o’clock
in a town you bared your teeth at,
sweet promises of a man I haven’t met before
holding his hand out with concealed rot in marrow,
telling me it was okay to be here.
But if you were to hurt me,
why not kill me instead?
Pin me against the tree you deign to commit treason with,
coat your edge with the juice I held inside fibreglass veins,
sink tooth into a neck not surprised of this judgement call,
make the execution righteous and hard, hollow and gaudy, canine and meteoric
and tie my paws from the twine nooses you hang your hurt from
adorned in pearl and silk,
and let my corpse wash in another man’s summer miasma.
As I lay in fetid casings of bourbon gunpowder,
I beg for more,
so that this whimpering conversion of love into malignancy
can end with desaturated, shade-kissed furrowing,
and not this
It hurt so much, sometimes I forget to feel it.