Naive girls don't make good lovers but I will sink into the comfort of your clementine lips, grazing, staking claim on my skin — an offering to your kisses made of molten lead, oh, how surely, how gently they trail, like a river following its memory lane.
And yet, I have apologies etched on my skin; I am a poem that bruises quickly like petals on the soil. So much for being the goddess of spring when all I have are wildflowers and moans scattered on the sheets of the dusk.
We know naive girls don't make good lovers so cast me, Hecate, into firelight where all your daughters burned. Strip me of this sundress; my chest was half of Demeter's softness and half of the underworld's wrath.
And yet, I, too, am made of papercuts forged to look like carmellia buds lost and slow dancing in broad daylight, your hands on my waist — a quiet breath, a delicate touch:
such curious ways of coming home. Naive girls, they don't make good lovers but I will pick you stray sunlights and goldenrods — leave them by your bed; these sheets know that I belong to no throne. I belong to no man.
And they say that naive girls don't make good lovers, but only just; darling, your walls are an eyewitness to your gaze and my corruption.
So much for innocence now neck-deep in mildew and anomalies. So much for springtime, its fields, now made for us coming undone. And so much for winter, darling — so much for winter.