death of a dandelion

You rip her

away, with your

fingers around her

neck, and blow

every piece of her

into the wind because

your wishes need a

carrier and she

does not need



unwanted entrances

She sheds her body every night,

like snakeskin,

because the patches where your hands roamed

no longer fit smoothly

on the bruised white of her bones.

She wonders if your fingers

retrace her figure

when you sleep,

the way her mind

maps the distance between

her lips and your breathing.

She wonders if your knees


like a reminder that her thighs

were imperfect guards

who let an intruder

through the gate.

She wonders if you’ve

worn gloves

or if you always leave

your fingerprints.

he signed his art with a kiss

You say the bruises

make my body look like art.


The blue and purple circles,

a much needed contrast

to the pallor of my skin,

the fading scars on my neck,

like detailed drawings

on a blank and boring canvas.

You say the pain in my face

makes me look artistic

But who gave you permission

to be my artist?