Sweat rolls down my back and my stomach swirls in agony
Oh that I am ill for you
Sick for your pleasure
My sweet lilac lady, purple princess of the pyre
Where my body burns and buzzes for your gentle love

Bane of the wolf and you chase the creature from my heart
I snap my teeth no more
The hood of the holy brother who looks over me
But you are the one divine

I cannot move for your care, numb of mind to your affection
Delicately lulling me into restfullness

And oh! There is pain
And I am frozen in place

But you sing my softly to sleep

My lips fail and stutter as you halt me in my breath
I am halfed now, never complete
You my other part, my other half
Stealing away my soul from the pit of my lungs
Your astounding beauty takes over me and
I am gone on you
Gone for you

And I drift- drift away with

My darling aconite who stays with me till the end

The president of the horticulture club
thumbs the violet leaves of a aconite
ignoring the shooting pain crawling on her skin.
The other members glare at her,
waiting for the reaction-
touch the frail plant
and your mouth is sure to set on fire.
The contact she has on the flower
is insanely dangerous.
Potent alkaloids bloom overhead
and she continues to breathe in deeply as if she is trying to swallow
the strong, acrid taste of the atmosphere,
which should have sent her into a frenzy of disorientation
and seizures of her small limbs
but at last, she glances
at the frozen treasurer and spoke calmly, her mouth slouching,
"Are you writing this down?
I want the future of this club
to know to never touch plants
without doing their research."
Then she blinks,
slumps against the bench,
undeterred.