Roses

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.