You speak in sentences like
withered flowers,
Each word a dying bud.
Loss of colour, loss of
interest,
No substance. I water with
my own lips
Repeating phrases to help
the cure
You think this gives.
If I were blossom, where
were the curves
That my petal skin should
touch?
Under the moss that has
grown so thick,
Guarded and untouched,
divided
By dead rot, red blood
In my rooted veins.
I have grown amongst the
weeds that consume me.
You have taken all the buds
from my own roses
And I am left with the
thorns.
