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Primitive.
Once,
I kissed an angry boy, in hopes that
it would smooth the rage
burgeoning under his bones.
He twined his hands in my hair and
anchored his lips to mine, as if
to climb inside,
to safety.
Vicious memories blossomed in his mouth,
petals choking me —
he released them down my throat.
“You do not kiss like they do.”
He confessed this to me
in sacred space against my neck.
I felt
his languid violence settle and
burrow deep inside my marrow.
Waiting for Spring.
