Between Bruises & Blooms

You looked at me
like I was something delicate—

a rose pressed
between the pages
of a book you shouldn’t own,

all velvet petals
and perfume,

something beautiful
to keep.

Darling,

you should have checked
for thorns.

I have spent too many nights
learning what hunger
does to soft things.

I have kissed grief
until my mouth
learned its language.

Let loneliness
crawl beneath my ribs
and make a home there.

So when you touched me
like you weren’t afraid,

when your fingers traced
the places other hands
had taught to flinch,

something ancient
opened its eyes.

I wanted you.

Not gently.

Not innocently.

I wanted your breath
caught between my teeth.

Your fingerprints
left like bruised prayers
against my skin.

Your name
ruined in my mouth.

I wanted to know
what sound you’d make
when tenderness
stopped pretending
it wasn’t hunger.

Come closer.

Put your hands
where the ghosts still sleep.

Kiss the mouth
that learned survival
before softness.

Call me beautiful
if you want—

but understand:

pretty things
grow wild
when no one is watching.

Roses have thorns.

Belladonna blooms.

And some women
learn to bare their teeth
when they’re finally touched
like something worth
devouring.