And I am born of the dreamers’ deadliest desires.
Not what you liked, Dahlia, you who are down to earth?
Every petal takes a cut against my worth,
so much blood spills in birth,
red beads erupt from the skin of my wrists where my anger took shape for the very first time.
Run on, child of the star meadows. Our anger has no place in your story, any morning,
sleep on until twilight, child,
when you may dance under the moon and never shrink in self-consciousness at the shadows stalking by sunlight.
At the name of you my wrists scrape red,
I never had anything against Dahlias or Zinnias or Begonias
but one of you was bound to cut me first, as my sky fell
and I fell into your meadows.
So give me your worst, dig at my heart by smashing through my ribcage
if that is the only way you know how to love
give me your venom
and I will train myself to be immune
I will press my anger like fruit
so the juice runs red where I bled–
but I am all innocence of dreamers’ desires,
I fail at intoxication,
and flail weakly wielding juices as weapons,
for I am from star meadows and shadows and wraiths in the mist.
Phantoms of a wish.
Wait on, child of my dreams.
How we bleed as we are born into existence,
taking over the earth with our oceans of helpless rage.