I Am A Flower Tangled In The Weeds
I spit thorns between two lips scratching into those that come too near, who try to buy my bouquet without realizing what type of flower I am.
I live with roses within,
soft golden petals
push past the
canals of my ear,
passionate red buds bloom
along the edges of my hips
and line my inner thighs.
I spit thorns between
two lips
scratching into those that come too near,
who try to buy my bouquet
without realizing
what type of flower I am.
Blushing blossoms shape my face,
while soft stems tangle wildly
away from my scalp.
Dirt builds in the pit of my stomach
a heavy mound
that has grown too dry to water.
I feel the first onset of weeds
gently brush
against my belly button.
And all at once
I feel my petals wither.
I ready myself with a pair of pruning shears,
but I already know
that I cannot snip the weeds
without cutting off a piece
of myself.