By Liz Darrell
A dew covered apple bruises when it falls from the tree:
Burst vessels below skin surrender
Nectar only to itself.
Spreading meally sweetness in
Shallow pools.
Plucked mint is most fragrant after a firm smack
It’s unseen oils dripping out.
Billowing aromas felt in the eyes.
A coolness that moves you to tears.
But my insides are not honeyed.
They do not soften.
Blood turns to stone under heat and pressure,
Trapped beneath violated flesh.
The vapors from red hot skin
Summon swollen lids and salty droplets.
But rainbows take time to run across my inner thigh.
Peachy flesh turns red
And sizzles of purple cool to quiet hisses of blue.
Rising greens set to shadows of yellow.
My body sours in the night.
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