He becomes such a cripple when he touches me,
gripping the flimsy cocoon of my body
He foams—
He drips his lies—

I am rooted to him,
a pale flower growing from his yellow fingers
My skin seems to bloom in his hands—
but I am only shedding the silence

An ivory stone in my mouth
I cannot be rid of it
I am his glittering doll,
who he carries to milk-colored rooms

I cradle this poison
As I unpeel his hands, his lips
He speaks to me, polishing those lies
I paint the bed with whispers

My fingers are clusters of blossoms
weaker than my maddened words
I am awaiting the bloom of ice, of winter—
the frailty of my unpetaling