.
petals
.
that girl never gave nothing, except herself, and that wasn’t worth much anyways. a little
between her legs here, a little there, and bahm! every man helped ruin the last traces of
sacredness from the inside out. their rubbings evoked a plastic soul in the depths of her
throat, but no emotions, no hearts growing tendrils that were plump as watermelons.
none for him. he was only given the last of her pulp, which was smaller than a seed; and
really nothing at all.
.
men gasped.
.
they never moaned the way they normally could with a woman- no. not with her.
something seemed to squeeze from her heart that others’ couldn’t secrete: a concoction,
not a love potion, but a lust potion: scrambled eggs. her sheets reeked of them, and
naturally, of burnt toast too. you can still see the crumbs under her fingers, lodged in the
crevices of her teeth; little seeds they are, little seeds ready for planting.
but what man would ever want to plant her? her eyes don’t water; her throat
aches; her hands burn; and her legs- her legs dance the way fire does: orange fingers,
grabbing, enticing, melting- locking around his joints where knees are unable to bend. or
pop. or let love tremor through her body as an apple is slowly unpeeled, juices streaming
past hips, past toes, onto tongues where lust never calculates into love, and purrs never
substitute for kisses: hinged skins, nakedness without shame.
.
(and he breathes and he collects his skin and he expires onto the bed).
.
petals collapse in a uniform sigh: flatline.
.
.