(tw: implications of sexual assault)
The
difference
between
this
touch
and
that
one
is
sprouting
a
certain
new
sapling
within
me.
For
a
while
nothing
was
enjoyable
about
this
neck
of
the
woods.
When
scenes
all
around
this
touch
would
transpire
on
the
screens,
I'd
run
away.
When
facing
my
own
flowers,
I'd
stiffen
up
like
a
board,
unknowing,
unknowing.
The
rooted
memories
of
the
hate
she
gave
in
the
name
of
love
still
drove
their
briars
within
my
innocence's
veins.
But
you've
taught
me
that
timbering
into
this
lake
is
a
choice.
The
quiet,
startled
child
within
me
is
dead,
forgotten
in
the
forest
back
there.
You
ask
me
if
your
music
is
ok
to
blare
in
my
ears,
if
my
eyes
are
fine
with
eating
your
love.
It
used
to
be
so
bait-and-switch.
Now
I
step
into
the
fire.
I
need
it.
I
need
it.
YOU ARE READING
PERCHED PARCHED BUTTERFLY
PoésieYour voice is the paint I take to the sky, splattering it all over, so they can all know you're nigh.
