Petals

they coat me in

cold and call it “polish”

as if frozen snares

are what I would naturally desire

 

to think I dream 

of placate-back bending,

head sinking ever closer

to my eroding roots–

No.

you do not know who I am

 

yet patterned petals still provide

a head hung low still hangs beside

a Hand

who still believes

in yellows and greens

and love.

 

He believes in love.

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