you tell me I am too


to you,

and I kiss you


for I will not punish you

for the parts of you that

bleed, or the

corners of your skin that

scream with trauma you

are still learning to


for I am not,

will not be,

your judgement day.

the apathy of flower picking

this summer I

watched the way you kept

picking roses and pricking

your fingers

on the thorns and

my arms held themselves

open for the tears you

shed but now


am the one

picking roses and pricking

my fingers and through my

tears I see

your arms crossed

in front of you.