I love it to be near you, though
the roses you feed me
get stuck in my throat,
and I can’t speak properly.
It’s a suffocating feeling,
one of pebbles lodged in
where loads of red petals
warmly blanket over my
anxious vocal chords.
But more, those thorns
don\'t ever slow
their bee-pricking scorn.
And the roses, they
bloat up my full stomach
undigesting, as plastic, sitting
collecting weight, or dust.
Being untouched,
and unkept, the roses
settle, the vines start
down, my esophagus encroached
by those external veins, pumping
the rose-blood,
and it grows, wanting,
and wanting like a parasite.
It takes my body, chest, throat,
and throws itself through,
vying for the space inside of me,
hungry and thirsty to spread, though,
taking its sweet, sour time
as it slowly decides when
as if the first gene it consumed
was my very own
indecisiveness,
and the next one
leaves soon.