Roses

once grew

across my arms.

(My skin was dirt!)

(Burry yourself inside of me!)

I wrote my poetry against your skin,

and I let you in

-like golden haired girls

I'm full of sin-

to begin

with-

I had twelve yellow rounded months

to bronze myself.

(Remember climbing the roof; rickety, before it was redone

and me

laughing so hard

that you had to keep your hand over my mouth

just to hold me

and my roses in.)

The floor in the kitchen was freezing

back when you found all of my poems pleasing.

Did I ever tell you

how I milted

down your throat

that night

before sunset

(just to see what it was like to live inside of you)

how I curled up like a baby inside of your Esophagus

and when I came to your trachea

I sliced you from the inside out

just to escape

(my roses after all never bloomed with you for very long)

my eyes

(remember you told me?)

were the photographs

that copied

and crystallized

winter

wonderfully.

I am a strange-seasoned girl

blooming

inside of my roses,

red

before

my slumber.

(I abandoned what was left of my red roses

against your trachea).