cyanide seeds

lipstick of pomegranate juice. questions like fat tomatoes under a hungry eye. bedbugs, burnt onions, the soft warmth of our bare bellies and the glow of my cheeks in remembrance. no, i didn't know him. did you? i'll chip my teeth on my own longing; i'll dull the cracking ache with some smoke and mirrors and a pinned on grin, cheshire cat. he inhaled clay dust and all the rest - this tastes of nothing less than submersion. we swell like yellow jacket stings in the sweaty summertime, like webs of poison ivy scars on the backs of our legs. (i eat apple cores, now, because of you.)