By Haley Walsh
I don’t know how to explain it to you.
I can’t find the link between our worlds to even find a metaphor for it.
Where in your world is the carnage of living?
I want to infect you with life:
A grove of blossoms;
Citrus trickles down my chin and onto my chest,
A bed of fertile petals.
Eat too much and the burns will strip you
And wilt the petals.
Don’t pay it enough attention
And it’s a grove of slow rot.
You’re a bowl of plastic fruit.
You’re trying to immortalize yourself
With flashbulbs glaring on stolen statements.
But you don’t need to, darling,
You’ll live forever.
You have to earn the peace of death.
You won’t find it spritzing bergamot at your pressure points.