I scream “****” like a blossom being picked,
ripped from the soil, roots left behind.
My family waves goodbye, weeping crimson petals
and wilting their heads, ashamed of my shame.
They turn their stems to me, humiliated by my deflowering.

Can you smell my terror? Can you ******* anguish?
As I lie here ruined, face down in the dirt,
plucked then tossed near the rest of his bouquet.
She loves me, she loves me not? No.

I am still there, I am always there.
Rocks bury themselves into my eyes,
each ****** blinding me but I can still see him.
I hear him moan my name as if he knows me,
“Narcissus, Narcissus, you’re mine.”
He lets go, flooding me with his backwards milk.

We lie here. his bouquet, in Cemetery X on grave Y
marked “Hope”, but there never really was hope, was there?

His name was Amor.