-- when I have the tenderness of a writhing dragon, he will paint flowers across my throat
as though to remind me that fires are indelicate, and that I writhe in a prison made of open space. -- this man will not smother me with his skin when we sleep. -- this man will unhinge the door of my mouth, and kiss out the bullets stuck under my tongue. --- whatever thousandth day I awaken beside this man, realizing I have become the flowers he painted across my throat, by braving my throat,
I will, unchaining myself from the draconic worry, bring him his coffee in bed, with a smile.