patina

a poem by Salis.

he told me he was excited to see me 

with age 

as a gorgeous play? 

no, with forests thick upwards from my hips to cheeks 

with a deep scrape rust in my throat that'd make garden gates mewl 

id call any man a liar. you? with words so white i cant shield my eyes?

ive been fed male lies cock over coddle, but 

he is those runs of tongue over you 

each kiss, lick, a thousand yards of patina 

those garden gates pull with rust when hes over me 

there is no prize to be won, no head 

to mount 

there is no gun, with him there is no head hunter, there is no shame or a coward or blood or rust or 

screaming or fitting 

the garden lays still 

please bed me, 

the roots bump and surface wet in mulch march

the sheets shift

vines and crab grass go unfettered

i dont need to do my best

vines find veins in iron lattice

a started man whines, he tightens my neck

the wasps and figs are left to little

deaths oh what he had years ago, what i starved for

my garden has finally started, i may feed myself slow. he told me hes excited to see me grow

(Author's note: i found it hard to fully relax around cis lovers. there was always a rush on stopping what i had started or taking the fast lane and never seeming fast enough. i wish for my identity to be laid to rest and forgotten. and until a store-bought man, no diy assembly needed actually left that side of me the fuck alone, i didnt realize it was what i needed. my "garden" is lovely as it is over grown, unfettered by molding sculptors. and i pity the minds of those that cant shoulder past the rusted iron gates.)