Every cell praying to be wanted,
it craves greens and violets, burrowed and blotted.
Let your prints bloom on it.
The rain will wash it for you tomorrow.
If kisses cannot bless it
it'll drunken itself on your filth and spit,
tend to the bleeding wounds you permit.
The ghost of a caress is enough for it to submit.
Red lips on red skin will surely make it overflow.
If that's not good enough then it will consume
and create whatever you crave in it's womb.
If that's too much then it will spume,
wash away, praying for a soul to assume.
Let it nestle in your ribs and grow,
grant you fruit with no soil to sow
bite the apple and it'll never say no.