I thought I could plant a garden
His skin thorns against mine
His teeth sharpened iron
His bite, in words and smiles, cuts through my softness,
my supple offerings of self and untouched virtue.
My tongue still fights his desert delta and blackened tonsils, ashen cheeks
because I can feel it
the inklings of warmth deep within him.
And if, maybe if,
I can reach his heart with light trembles and faint flutters
He’d grow. I know.
He could be so kind and sweet.
We could be my future.
But is it worth the work?
The cuts like paper slices when I graze his parched face,
The aches within my grace when I let his stiffen self explore my fertile gardens,
Dig, dig, dig.
What seeds am I willing to plant?
What will I allow to spring up within me to keep him here? To make him whole?
And if I let him hoard my warmth and light and moisture,
Will he grow succulent?
Or, even harder, against me?
