by Jae Eason
Two weeks you have
of me. Slowly, I bloomed /
achingly opened.
Quickly, my petals caught wind &
plucked
off. Branches bare
& skin naked. Gagged on the cherries that
grew in the wake of my deflowering,
forgot it was my
own tongue. I cried and convinced
myself it was not crying. I asked and asked
and asked, but couldn’t remember how to
form words,
so the asking never left my
mouth.
The wind calls out,
baby, stop doing this to yourself
but I keep mistaking it for my
voice. The wind knows too much. It knows
the things I wish to know. Yesterday,
I made it tell me a secret, but I didn’t listen
to what it whispered in my ear.
