She tucked a blue tress behind her ear
and eyed the lamplights flickering overhead,
letting the wind wash over her fingertips
electrifying chlorophyll veins and sparking
nerves, jolting memories of rain and tempest
out of the darkness of her heart.


Our bristling quills are pen nibs
or plectrum paint brushes
or several pints of unmentionable
cruelty, but they’re ours – we stab
with surgeon’s tools, tracking
obsessive veins with ill-thought
points and snappy whimsical retorts,
anything that sparks and spines
and points, everything we’d make
a weapon between us
and them


Your flowers follow up my skin,
unfurling petals and chlorophyll veins
running patterns across my scars.

Cut the ink out of me,
paint stems in my blood
lose loves in my margins
roll thorns down my wrists.

Bind and bleed me of words,
collect every sentence I spill:
set me to your name.