survivingophelia

the breeze wraps my face in warmth here.

my sweat drips to the furthest length of the twisted windblown ebony in my eyes.

a rose by any other name,

would be another flower.

so my rose, it is by your name and yours alone that you should be called.

knowing (please believing) that it does not matter the blood drawn by any single prick of your entirety.

you are the bloom that i keep pressed to my chest and the thorns that i cover in my liquid pulse when i forget to remember not to press too hard.

the wind is warm in this place...the only place i find you unfettered by moss and corruptions that wilt what you are.

a delicately petaled sword.

it is on this patch of earth i will lie with you.

and let the skin swallow the sweat i make when i have tried to run and press this bloom (this blade) into my snowy throat.