He will not think me innocent,
for I cannot keep my eyes wide,
not while he’s perverting the small of my back.
Pick my carnations.
Sure… you would like to uproot my garden.
Tis an unweeded garden,
that grows to seed,
lilies of the valley,
tears of the virgin,
the violets wilted to date,
and the putrid zinnias,
of daily remembrance.
One for you…
and one for you.
his hands promise to love me,
like the father, now lost, had.
But his skin froze to me in short spurts.
This is not the love that I asked for…