she was not beautiful
she was enchanting.
(but if i told her that she would wrench my tongue out)
a blushing tempera moulded by claire de lune herself / a muse whose words would bleed mauve with flushed elderberry and bittersweet grapefruit / sometimes if you look closely, under her silvery smile and metal spooned laughter, you could catch a glimpse of ambrosia tucked neatly beneath her cupids bow / the poison would trickle through the fissures of her blackberry pout and pool at her chin like ripened blood / sometimes i thought they were fangs.
i was always wary of kissing her then.
(but if i told her that she would wrench my tongue out)
(she would
wrench my
tongue out)
she would yank and pull and twist my writhing tongue until her belly is saturated with stale mulberry / i would always admire the way she lapped the glistening residue (my remnants) off her fingers with her pronged cranberry glossa / i've always wanted a taste.
i mean if i said anything,
(she would wrench my tongue ou-)
but wait!
i think she already has.
YOU ARE READING
BLOOM
Poetry𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙘𝙝 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙬𝙚𝙙 𝙚𝙮𝙚𝙨 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 (𝙥𝙤𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙮) 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙥𝙨 /anthologies of prose and poems/
