06
i have to admit, you really wrecked my style,
poets feed on death and decay, and hoc polloi want to read about pain and anguish and rejected roses and suicide probing the back of your mind like the tip of a knife,
and here i am with a notebook full of pastel soft pages describing a boy with the solar system lodged in his throat:
but i can't help it, for the first time i have wrapped my fist around a rose bud and don't feel the shrill urge to tighten it, crush the petals-
for everything you say sounds ethereal. we talk about drugs and the filth on the street, we make a map of our scars and suck on lollipops in the terrible heat, but it all flows through me like rose water and honey.
- burnt sienna is for love
