you placed flowers in my heart and bees in my stomach

Sat at the station,
With nowhere to go

Trains
Arrive to depart
And
Bustling commuters
Phones attached
Rush on by
Sat at the station
Nowhere to go
Fear etched in the lines
Of a
Face lost in time
Eyes seeing,
Their spark gone
Empty costa cup
Gripped by a hand
Nails black, skin blistered
Newspaper, a forgotten date
Lies next to
Cracked leather boots
Soaked then scorched
Too many times

Sat at the station
With nowhere to go

I sat down in these fields of vanilla orchids, waiting for the sun to set, turning them to a shade of yellow

Among the shadows of their leaves, I saw your face along the congregations

I saw the radiant beauty of your smile in the colors, the exuberant joy in the dancing of the wind

Your presence was among the serenity, a guardian joy grasping my hand, as I reached to touch the clouds with my fingertips

Your canvas was among the docility of these orchids, how gorgeous and wonderful you are truly

A magnificent creature painted among these fields of vanilla, how sweet and illumnating you are in my soul

When I laid my head to the evening earth, you warmth lay as a blanket around me

I held in reaction, knowing you are love in my bones, and joy in my eyes

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.