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.
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