I once mistook the fresh soil
you poured
down my throat
for butterflies.
But love should not
crawl
deep inside you
And tie
your vocal chords
in knots.
Gardens now infest my lungs
in the same ****** place
where you carefully
dug yourself
a grave.
I make bouquets
with the flowers
that burst
from the rotting marrow
of your
bones.
—“your absence taught me fertility”
Nov 21, 2020
Nov 21, 2020 at 4:47 PM UTC