Thistle of a flower
I will put your skin in my mouth
Your skin, soft and smooth
Silky like a spider web.
I will eat the flower before you bloom
Your skin, soft petals that feel like
The skin behind a lover’s ear and down their neck

Your rose bud manner,
Splotchy, matching the violet color of your veins
That run down my mother’s legs
More vibrant and noticeable with age.

The greener parts of you,
Soft and strong like fresh leather,
Are harder
But can be pulled open.
You’re earthy, the smell
Of dirt on my fingers makes me long for fresh
Moving air in my lungs.

The pores of your skin almost instantly
Browning once air brushes your skin.

You’re softer deep down at your yellowed heart.