V. He tastes like gardens smell. Pollen sticky pistol on my lips like granules of sugar falling falling falling sands, time is glimmering for days He cries out so loud and neither of us care that there's a merchant one tent over listening to everything we say. I am coated in the seed of flowers, pollinated, ready to germinate, to bloom in the silken folds of his petals. VI. History has a funny way of repeating itself. He's beautiful in all the ways I can never be, and I am uncertain if I want him or if I want to tear him down. If I want to tear him down or tear him apart. If I want him in pieces, fractured shards of shattered glass spitting jagged images Broken mirrors can be put back together, she said. But you can still see the cracks in the reflection, I answered. You'll never get past this if you keep thinking like that, she said. And I shrugged, because she had no idea that there was no returning from how far I'd gone by then. VII. Why don’t you, then, dear Jacovaea, bring him to you now? Because I'm afraid if I reached out to him, he would come, and I would be eclipsed by his pale moon face and his mantis eyes and I would fall to my knees to beg forgiveness for ever trying to dominate him. Forgive me forgive me forgive me forgive me the need to be inside you keeps me awake at night. I only want to wear your skin for a moment. VIII. Fireflies. Embers. In this darkness there is no difference. Both hot. Both fluttering. Both churning in my belly with the need to light up the night. My fingers twitching over the oil lamp. He tastes like gardens smell and I bet he would burn just as nicely as the last one did.