Flesh pulls my soul from its core
With every fall of the sun’s breast.
I am a thief of its radiance,
Breathlessly clamoring for an insipid warmth-
I like roses, even though they smell like the bitter dirt.

I partake in shedding of skin, like a diaphanous veil,
For all to witness my soft underbelly.
The first acceptance is sycophantic-
Fathers’ lust and mothers’ panic
Are wed in the same vein. This is my resignation to
A marriage as ancient as

The first rejection –
Desire, a hunger who abandons
My parasite of a resolve. An affection of the mind
That warps my size beyond its threshold, too dormant to digest
Love.

Isn’t feeling chagrin cruel?
I’ve learnt it from a life’s refusal
To crawl out of my glass house.
I like roses, even though they smell like the bitter dirt.