Does it make you uncomfortable

to digest this defective conception

that we, with two flowers, stems,

and one humble home for some

potential someones ~flower children~
must collect the soft pillow

they’d have laid their little heads on

in a soppy, sloppy bandage,

or else cork the very rite of passage

they didn’t go through, all the while

enduring the aching, constricting

push push push

without hopeful coaching? Yes,

just an empty ring, a pulpy fighter

alone in a pool of bright wet sweat

(and more) still dripping down their

nose tip and mixed with the soul’s

windows’ leak and the unnecessary

drip drip drip

of an optimistic IV far away, waiting

for the splashing crash of a tearing sac–

We drag our feet, clutch our centers,

have our cores carved until seedless;

our attempts to create will be needless

once our flowers hold no bud or pollen

and their stems bow their necks in defeat,

broken from years of holding up heads

filled with dread for the cringing, yucky

stares of onlookers not wanting to see

but staring anyway at the roadkill that is

our garden every three dime day (give or take).

They pass us by and shout disgust at us

and ours and our kind and we know

exactly why. Yes, we can understand

why you’d find it uncomfortable

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