Rosacea

A mouth is just a mouth but today, yours is the noose with which I will hang myself.

In the dark, sunflowers look to each other for hope, and that is how I looked to you,

brimming with want, flesh and bone marrow between my teeth.

Sincerity is a thing with claws and when I reach for her, she leaves scars on my forearms but turns docile and soft when curled up at your feet.

In the morgue, the nectarine, the rose, and the almond lie next to one another, dappled in rosacea.

Today, I will stitch myself into a tapestry, peel off my birthmarks, carve a poem into my femur, and write to you, write to you, write to you.

Your grief is my grief, but my grief is not your grief.

The weeds blooming above my skull are beginning to die.

Why is it that blood moons are red and strawberry moons are pink, but blue moons are never teal or cerulean or cornflower?

I am a lonely planet without a moon, you are a meteor hurtling toward me at light speed, determined to destroy any forms of life atop my surface.

The beginning is more grotesque than I ever could have imagined.

This month, I will swallow the cream of sadness until I turn fat.

January, I love you. January, forgive me – I have not yet forgiven myself.