In the dream, she offered me a flower, and I refused. I was
confused, unable to distinguish lust for love, up to my nose in both, a flower
blooming in season, yet so much more, which I still adore, yet can barely bear,
not merely pretty, but complex, as I struggle to go on to whatever is next –
the fragrance swirling around in my head, in my bed, and I cannot stroke it away,
(and wonder if I’m secretly gay), needing to dress love up at something it is
not, disguising it with bows and ribbons until the flower is not a flower any
more, but something else, darker, more intense. We are always drawn back to it,
even when it became clear and is still clear, she had no use for me anymore, me
offering her flowers and candy she doesn’t want, yet in the dream, all is reversed,
and maybe that’s true, too, she offered, I refused, when I ought not to,
bearing all this on my shoulders, the blossom, my fingers bleeding from its
thorns, each time I try to touch where her bloom had been, finding only thorns,
too potent to grasp without bleeding myself dry
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