Self-Portrait as a Withered Flower
In this room is a dead monarch fly.
Because your breath is proportional
to a wildfire, my body, too, is the closest
thing to a half-bitten apple.
For all the broken fingers and bruised ankles
I carry with me, hidden beneath the confines
of sleek dresses, my blood coats the bathwater
like nightfall enveloping the cloud.
I wake to find your anger like blades tearing down
the curtains of tranquility. What is it about loving
tearing me apart like a knife slicing through an apple flesh?
This body: a city bordered by matchsticks and gasoline.
I housed a dove on my palm in my sleep, I do not know
if joy comes with loving everything soft and tender.
Outside, the trees whistle in succession, to rhythm
your blows sweeping through my ribs.
Anger gives the body what it cannot hold. If loving
is a switchblade, I am the orange flesh.