do the petals stain?

I’ll fill this room with skeletons too big to fit, and maybe one day she’ll become a living creature too. this room, I mean - I can’t wait to give her lungs. with the electrical signals that me and my laptop lend one another, I hope to create something meaningful. staining pages only goes so far. welcome to my breeding ground.

I spill literature into politics and poetry into art. I am no longer a monolithic being and, failing to produce one grand mastery, I will be all of them at once. then, consider this a letter of sorts - the first one to my love. our times are whirling and complex, mystical and square. we all pollinate ourselves with different means as we try to make sense of it all. then, consider this my attempt. i wish to free my writing and concurrently build boxes around it - taper off the edges and help it breathe again. does the petal stain? if I ever do an mri scan, I suppose I will find out. my heart is now available for purchase as my quest to fetch the beauty of the world trails. I talk through times of change - university in the fall, transition for the rest of my early life. who knows what relics I will unearth here in a year’s time? days flow like rivers and my hands stretch only for the grains of sediment that traverse the glassy waters unscathed. i take them home and give them voice, and here they are for you and me to love and loathe.

I transcribe unresolved meanings, things that bug me and ghostly colossals whose footsteps I trudge in through the seasons. how do we love, hate, grieve when the words talk behind our backs, talk differently to each one of us? to drown not having felt the burn of meaning, I wish that only on those that eat pickles out of the jar. the flame burns differently for each pane of skin that wraps around a soul. i only hope that petals are inflammable.