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-
I had twelve yellow rounded months
to bronze myself.
(Remember climbing the roof; rickety, before it was redone
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
(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)
(remember you told me?)
were the photographs
I am a strange-seasoned girl
inside of my roses,
(I abandoned what was left of my red roses
against your trachea).