for JD

You are of the same skin
as you were born.
You’re a shaking white rose
still with its thorns,
clutched in teeth or in vase,
here you are torn,
and you have nothing to keep but your petals.

Would you rather be held
or woven in fence,
slashed at the stalk, feeling
nothing there since?
You have made a choice, now
this happened, hence,
life and love, here, they do tend to muddle.

Have him bleed from his palm.
Turn your face red
and sprinkle your fresh body
onto his bed.
See your born-of skin drop.
Gravity. Lead.
Do you remember being so brittle?


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