he was the god of all.
his delicate breath moved the soil under my velcro shoes.
i bound myself and knelt at his feet.
his skin smelt juvenile, like he was soft to the touch.
but he burned.
and my fingertips were reminded of that bitter truth each time i stooped to worship.
he could have taken the very blood from my veins-
the fresh remains of my spaniel heart.
the purest form of mutilation
was his
and his alone.
the bruises littered his skin like freckles
and i will shrink
to be worthy of him.
YOU ARE READING
weeds.
Poetrysometimes you need to return to the soil to feel the triumph of what once grew.
