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Peony Bruised (2020)
I lie down in a bath brim-filled with peonies
and feel their soft crush beneath my weight.
That soundless collapse of a teen girl.
The emptiness of discarded velvet dresses.
Pink blood blot tests me where I move,
my thigh is a map of a country in lockdown;
see how it doesn’t move but it can tremble.
A city turns into a bruise I keep pressing upon
and nothing changes but the scent of pain,
so I dip myself under and ask the petals to tell me their first memories.
And then, how we grew.
Feature image is stock from Pixabay.