Flower Mouth

 

My mouth is full
of flowers when I start
to talk to you. I spit
orchids and lap up
roses, but phlox grow
wild down my spine
and spider out like
weeds, like parasitic
thoughts feeding
off my skin.

They always tell me
my skin is so soft, fed
I think
by the hot house of hate
brewing in my blood. but
It comes out like nectar,
sweet like honeysuckle
to the tongue, licked
lightly with intense
pressure.

I no longer know
how to love,
to read emotion
like hot pressed words
on paper. It’s not
black and white.
It’s red and dripping,
like blood from bitten lips.

 

[ grad school is consuming my soul. but it’s always over. ]

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