Flower Wounds
Summertime always springs in, and along it sadness spawn.
It reminds me of re(markable) shoulders and tied spaghetti straps;
sacrilegious haunches over which an off-white ditsy sundress floated on.
Full of tiny lilacs, yellow lilies, and seraphic zeal — the calibre that makes one relapse.
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Perhaps my “Rosebud.”
The leitmotif of this tragic bluesy musical.
One who saw me for who I was. One who made me who I am.
And then there were others, full of compassion.
The aspirant gentrifiers.
And I, an arsonist of their uncharted desires,
the firefighter their forlornness hires,
the ringmaster to tame the tropical ring of wildfires.
A virtuoso, a devourer, an architect of their steamy flesh-pleated flutes of passion. (And quagmires.)
I, a vulgar nostalgia-revelling Alcibiades to their un-Socratic restraint and strumpet-ous talk.
To them I say: run before you can walk.
Run before I make you crawl.
Take off before I take you, doll — for what you are to me, what you ever will be. (Not her.)
Liberate yourself lest you’re fettered in my temple of sin.
Thrilled and gratified in my moment of weakness, on one languishing evenin’.
Purveying you a mania for the manners you were touched in. (I learned from the best, yes her.)
In their love(sickness) they disregard that even the lapels of my suit have been smeared indelibly with the fragrance of rose — I won’t be able to sit, I won’t be able to stay. I won’t ever be theirs.
Can’t they see? They fell in my opinion when they fell in love with me.
People like me don’t love… they sin. I have tasted it on your petals, I have felt it sheathing me, I have felt it needing me.
I, they ween, shall be mended, they devote themselves to; but I’m not even broken. I’m just… yours. I have been yours since your velvety fingers, clinging around my throat like wantonly guiding reins, embarked to segue my ravished state into bated breath and heedful to your silken huff of: “I belong to you..”
whilst you crashed on top of me akin to the chaotic smouldering waves of the enraged undulated Mediterranean on the blood-gorged rocks of a Sicilian cliffside. Over and over until it finds serenity and contentment upon having gloriously claimed and purged the cliffs.
That’s how you (demon)strated adoration, with your t(horns) waned.
That’s how I forgave.
