I can’t lie about wanting
to fall to my knees
with roses in a hand
held outward.

If you want me to resist
Who I am
I refuse.

Let me convey.

Let me open

and be consumed.

And your cheek was warm
and my mind was suspended
and my feet were above me
and after
my hand reached for my cheek
over and over again
as if yours was still against it.

I feel my ****** begin to swell
like a red ballon.
Slowly.
Aching too.
Sometimes it’s catching a bit
of your breath
when you sigh.
And sometimes it’s the sight
of your neck.
You lean sideways,
and I look toward you,
wondering:
why the desire to reach you
is so strong.
Why this pull?

Pout at me
I'll drool
with you.
We'll wet
together.
Wiggle and
deceive me.

The female ****** is a rosebud
blossoming over the course of seconds.

Our organs were molded in the
image of clams and flowers.

God obviously
gave his blessing.

If I have to throw my body into mesh
again, I am going to scream the hollowed
vibration of rage for all to hear.

I didn’t choose to prefer daffodils
over lilies. Yet now after now I am
shamed. Picking leaf after leaf in this
field of flowers, no one seems to love me
yet.