SANTOLINA CHAMAECYPARISSUS
by Sapphire Lynn Johnson
The life I lead is weedy
to you, I am just a mouth
full of empty apologies
a vase, my lips
to use, your fingers
and grip me right up
from Cicero
face down on a mattress
it hurt, until I plucked my underwear
fresh out of a cold cycle
the tag read: made with lavender cotton.
Anger thorned my laugh,
plotted tears on bloomed cheeks.
Seeds are lucky
encased in blissful darkness
to never truly know of Man’s meaning;
why they grow in first place,
why do they keep taking?