He has two heads.
I don't count the one below,
as some would call it;
I mean two on his shoulders.
One is for lure.
His mouth breathes love and fantasies,
caressing with words of nurture.
The other is to ****.
That mouth breathes toxins, poisons,
rotting you slow from the inside out,
still leaving you to feel loved.
This is just how he is,
wandering around with two heads;
And the body of a snake.

It boils in his chest, burns his throat,
Blurs his sight; there's no way to cope.
I've said goodbye many times,
Each time the fire clouds his eyes.

I'm never afraid, my love is to blame.
It keeps me grounded, not running away.

"He doesn't mean it." I tell myself,
My family, and friends; not asking for help.

In the end he says, "Sorry," at least in my mind.
I imagine it so, each time it rewinds.

I am forever silent in my time of strife,
My skin growing cold, pale, and white.

It makes more sense to give men flowers,
when you think about it.
After all some love women
and women are floral in nature
some men rush quick to pick
but crush in their hands
or neglect until they go dry from want.
you said your favorite flower is a spider lily
i know where you came to know those blooms
i run by the viewing station 3 days a week
they grow in the middle of the river
where an island of rocks makes the water slow
and a few guardian trees grow
you love flowers that take getting your feet wet to touch
and that you can never posses
by cutting, only by growth.

I feel so exposed,
as if I am a flower with the petals
ripped off and thrown to the ground.

Delicate, I once was.
Virtuous and dignified.

Exposed, all I feel is shame.
I do not feel delicate and beautiful and wanted.
I feel abused and torn and *****.

All I can ask is:
*please don't look at me.

The dream of the busy,
the curse of the bored.