Hands Made of Petals
If flowers were to blossom at your fingertips,
I would take apart each petal and blow them
Under your ribs and store vanity behind the mask
You flaunt upon my name.
You despise me, sir? Have I troubled your mind the
Way you have troubled my innocence behind every turning
Door? Turn the knob and lean yourself in;
I want every fucking taste of you I can get.
If your wounds were to heal beneath my bruise,
I would gently bite into the sole of your apple and bury
God’s Will beside her tree.
Plant your seeds in me.
Lure me into your dreams where my childhood screams.
Have I lost my mind within your embrace?
‘Shall I get onto my knees before you beg me please?’
Flowers have decayed, reader.
I cannot bear the sight of his hands.
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