When I lay my body down to rest
flowers will reach out the sockets
of my eyes, wrap tendrils around
my cheekbones, and suck the breath
from my throat.
In my dreams I still sleep neck deep
in someone else’s hate, drinking
his self-loathing, cloaked in the silt
of his misery. He should have but
he never could have saved it.
He rots in my memories, feeding
the flowers that suffocate me
in my sleep.