Doesn’t want to be the shrine
You dry your flowers in
The monument that gleams in which
You rest your tears
For the night.

Doesn’t want to be the flower
You invest your heart in
With blood and soil
As the thorns at my waist
Scream scratches into your
Gentle hands.

How deeply will the roots hold
When it is found
The grounds we began to build our house on
Was weaker than we took it to be
The roots that we bled for
Did not reach as far as we’d thought to see
with our swollen eyes

as we gave ourselves
as sacrifice to the deep black of the sea.