My poet is a wounded heart, beaten and bruised, she is still flowering.
In the hands of the darkness we fall upon our knees, turn our bodies into fantasy.
There is a body living in my mind.
She weeps, she feeds upon the thoughts I am watering like vines. A rose to my lips and your face at every window, you shadow of my shadow, you the haunt I breathe as I sleep. It was quiet, the violence, when my veins began to rush with blood, ache for the pierce of your teeth.
The pitiful grace of you, smoke gray the empty eyes, the brutality of the things you do to me in the name of a love you have never known. I break as you force my petal mouth slow.
How insistent my desire opening the moon, how mad the redness of this fire.
.
Allison Marie Conway 