Mango blood- memories of stealing sticky kisses
as the sun cracked heaven on its side,
leaking light like it owed us something holy.
You, terminally ill with desire,
and me, trying to siphon enough
to keep us alive-

to make us thrive

Don’t bite off more than you can chew,
but hunger is a kind of aching prayer
swallowing dreams whole,
even when they splinter the throat.

Got a year to fill you there,
maybe you’ll bloom in time.
But blooming is just dying in slow motion-
petals falling like forgotten names,
each syllable dragging its shadow.

At least you’re not alone,
even the moon needs the night to shine.
Please slow down.

I tried to tell you once:
pretty privilege never looked so good
when it wasn’t yours to own.

And killing you is the same
as killing me. We are bound,
a tangle of roots unable to let go.
If love is a garden,
this is the dirt we die in.