Duende

Two drinks past gone.

Playing Russian roulette

with twisting tongues

and trigger points.

This is a divine possession.

So worry not

my tender

tortured man.

I have everbearing fruit,

and you can’t harvest

too much from me.

Laced with, and labeled as what’s missing.

I'll play your succor

and use labored breath

as bellows.

I’ll bloom for you.

Turn my petals to tourniquets.

Flavor kisses with poppy.

I am the cure to what pains you.

Come now play in my light, love.

Let me cradle your truth.

To burn in this.

For this.

It serves us both well.