pressed flowers, never smell like spring again

by atti?


you’re the most hideous flower
ever pressed in to my palms.

i frequently leave my hands behind dusty bookshelves
for your peddles to be stumbled upon
when my fingers tremble like loose leaf
in virgin fingerprints
behind back corners of back corners
of secret hallways in libraries for the dead,
to remember where they’ve been.

we're everyones dirty secret.

whisperers spit our papercuts
like journalists
and the illiterate wipe their faces across the welts
we call wedding bands,
wishing our scars could spell truth in braille.

the archives of our introduction
became obituaries,
and the death you hid behind the veil
has become reason enough to spill more ink;
if only i hadn't bent the tip of this feather
trying to hammer the day we began to Live
on your tombstone,
and we didn't love in reverse
get dressed before intercourse
smile before you'd cum
resist before i'd force

Evil
-was written across the stone we call home,
on the day we signed the deed
and did the former
to which transformed seed into a hollow tree
that i split and pressed into sheets of grief
with beautiful tragedies doodled like child's play
to entice a read.

the book we wrote, has no authors note
- and the back cover reads:
Hold Me.