[clove orange]
your aromatic spikes press into my thumb,
a red imprint of the clumsy push
coercing you into that seeping christmas flesh
that is such an unnatural colour.
lines of you form, heads crumble, juice spills
until i am satisfied
or lose interest,
and bind your new marriage in matching unnatural twine.
you sit
awaiting the withering.
in a month you will follow me home.