The tracks
in my veins
are violets,
lavender scars
pushing up
from underneath
porcelain skin

These angled bones
are fists, I'm
brushing the dirt
from my palms
after I've spent a night
buried in the garden
that grows
in your bed

Red blood kisses
burn against
my snowflake mouth,
each one different
never the same --

Hips blades of grass
darting through my thighs,
beanstalk limbs
shooting up from
the ground,
no one can tell me
when they'll stop

If it doesn't rain
soon, they'll stop
sprouting for good,
a stunted twelve-year-old's body
hanging in the balance
of years left unmarked
in the crater of my belly

Child's fingers
pause
against
the window,
waiting
for the sun
to fade