Stop looking at me as if I’m some - thing to swallow up or spit out. A berry, black, swollen ready to be chosen for your consumption. I sour on your tongue, assaulting your taste buds because you thought the only - thing that mattered was the purplish black, the juice that produced for your pleasure, my ripe, plump bumps, my green hands outstretched ready and there, for you? Still you pluck and **** and stare and **** me up with your barren compliments stripping my sweet substance one by one by one, you extract it out of me
Tell me the story of the fawn, white-spotted, damp-eyed, lying still on the roadside; how the forest mourned for days, twisting and churning its leaves against the ashen sky. Tell me the story of tragedy, wind beneath the wings of Icarus on his journey to the sun; how he closed his eyes and smiled, basking in freedom’s warmth before plummeting back to earth. Tell me the story of youth, wild and tender, dancing barefoot as though we were made of nothing less than bruises and blackberry wine; how I'd let love destroy me, crashing the car if it meant being in your arms.
A sweltering run through the pastoral streets Past the chemical plant and decrepit machinery A couple miles trekked for nature's delicious treats Incardine specks and black dots poke through thick greenery
Step over the ditch into the smokey mud Stick your hand in carefully, the cost just a little blood
A blackberry picked from the protective thorn is sweeter than one picked from the grocery store