tw: mentions of abuse
Real problems don’t get solved by no pretty words.
If that were true, my purple throat would be its
Pretty black self right after the sorry.
After the second ‘never again’
The rouge on my lips would be back on the inside
What the fuck words gonna do for this headache
That’s splitting in more places than the glass that caused it.
I fucking know it don’t mean a damn thing to talk fresh fruit
While we busy choking on the seeds.
But I’ve got to write about moonlight and blossoms.
I’ve got to remind them there is something beautiful.
There is something beautiful.
My own brothers strip my skin
Wear me to their boat party.
They set fires to the earth I stand in
and shout about revolution.
Dangling and pinching our sisters by the stem
And chanting about love.
Their mouths are stained with a litany of wild,
By the time the colors of the sunrise shed away
to reveal its seed-
They have their arms around each other’s shoulders.
They’re singing harmonies about Peonies and Lavender,
Their whispers about Azaleas, snickering in the wind…
Why should they be the only ones
Who get to talk about flowers?