I picked the most appetizing flowers from these gardens.
I know of virgin thighs.
Anointed in your sweat.
Sat them in a glass.
And took the bench between your hips.

These are beautiful wooden legs you have to stand on

Take me lying down
I played my heart out on your rib cage an you tried to sing along
But the keys I chose: sour notes
And your singing turned to moan

This is the sound of dying insides

Everyone was sleeping.
Slaves to a gutted imagination.
The light of the television sprayed us into the shadows on a wall.
We: new gaceless mannequins.
We: new oil spills.
With no eyes how is it you cry.