Thorns

Thorns

Last night, my petals were lost in the fierce fight of bent knees and invading clutches.
My hymen purged and yearned for the next subterranean dance of bloodlets, my ritual of ‘disremembrance’.

Last night, the wild geography of my body was once again perused by soft hands and mild kisses, loving eyes and ardent embraces.
Mother called him our saviour, ‘this man was different’ a leaf fallen far from its tree,
the liberal wave that will rid me of impurities.

Tonight, my cervix winced and screamed in thousands of ways that I can write. The space between my neck and his palms holds poetry for another day.
I will write it down.

Though forgiven, he will sleep through my woeful nights.
Come back ye moon. You and I share the same story.
No one told me I had to love this Rose with its thorns.

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