Untitled, With Rosy Inflection

I would have come.

When you called. But.

I had the most beautiful pale pink rose.

Its healthy stem was clenched between my teeth. And.

Its thorns bit sharply into my tender wet flesh. So.

I couldn't answer you. Still.

My lips moved at you silently.

They offered words you never heard.

They screamed inside my crazed brain. Only.

It could do nothing for you.

In time the petals wilted.

They blew away. And.

They became compost in someone else's garden.

The tough, fibrous stem withered.

I bit down hard to snap its grip on me. Then.

My teeth fell out.

Its thorns had burrowed into my cheeks.

They had implanted themselves permanently.

They were suckling on my softest tissues. And.

Not long after they sprouted tiny shoots.

They coiled their way down.

I still held the memory of your call. And.

The long stemmed beauty lodged next to it.

They cleaved unto the long roots curling down my neck.

My body held tight and listened. Hard.