No Venus de Milo

They write of roses — write of thorns — romanticize the prick, the pain, the bleed. Either that or it’s daisies — dandelions — something sweet and unassuming — something innocent. No one turns your body into a Venus flytrap; associates your life with death, or the teeth it takes to survive. They want colour, so you say pink — maybe green — but it’s never enough. The violence of your heartbeat, the will of your perseverance. They hoped to be your last kiss, but you feed, and you grow, and you prosper. You are not the kind for dying, or needing, but you know hunger — know craving — know want. The snap and shut of it — the swallow — your body, strange and lasting, asking for nothing but truth. No one has the hands for it(, except… maybe you do…)

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