My sides have been stuck,
struck with pointed thorns;
unborn tragedies seething for
release.

Each one, I picked and prodded,
and left in soiled animosity;
bitter knots wreathed in poisonous
posterity.

Each foreign touch seems to have
left my gall cascaded
but Yours, debated -

a rhythmic ring of probing
pessimisity.

I breathe.
You squeeze,
touch my outer fringe, the withering;
I freeze.
You bequeath a fresh'ing thorn.

I writhe,


Moments collide -
fourth dimensional paradigms -
commonly unseen,

birthing blooms by vestal wounds;
you cut the stem,
you redesigned the strife,
in obsequios streams.