I have flowers in my throat.
The rich and fertile caverns of my chest support a ebullient host nematocera, of which, breed in my abdomen, gnawing at my innards.

Swarms of adults congragate in my mind, the competition is fierce.

Attitudes of altrusim: a moist mire, slowing my step.

Try to say, anything, but that.

I'd rather attract the nausa of rhopalocera.
Their light hearted and short-lived whimsy. A far cry from this violent mob. Oh but the sob of emptiness when they all die at once.

A welcome boon, that, maybe we'll come to bloom. Clumsy and crooked, I was never able to make a play when all I'm pitched is a doorsa.