Pollen Bruises
Pollen bruises like buzzing from slightly brushing the floral spectrum. Fiending for this life force that I have cut in half with antique sewing shears. That I have taken for my pleasure. For display. Pollen bruises like curry spices and henna soaked fingertips in designs that mimic the sky or flesh, marbled from heat.
When you gaze upon them, you will know that love is real. When you gaze into me, you will feel that the goddess is alive.
Pollen bruises and angel hair. Fine like opulent and coveted. I am milky and washed in dreams. My excretions are the reflector of the firmament. I am birthing my floral executions between lace covered thighs, producing a stigma exudate from my own petals. Clearing the benevolent ether through my sweat glands. Ecstasy present in religion, pleasure present in the undeniable.
Pollen bruises like rinds and reasons. A materia shielding of puckered, fruit like skin. I am present in your watery rest. In your prophetic visions or moments of knowing. In your yearning or in your dreams. I am your Lillith placement, raising a chalice to veils and the hands that lift them. To the view of ancient temples born from true love’s kiss. From your sweet writhing, you are reborn unto the holy isle. You see that the Plymouth of the new world is a collection of all things stripped bare and essential. That heaven is simply light and a euphoric stretch of time.
Pollen bruises from being brought to my knees. From being beaten. From now having wings. I am unabridged and pregnant with angelic flutterings. A child of the sun standing before you, undressed. But to your eye, I am dressed in gowns. It’s as if I have pulled golden strands from my head and woven the homespun divine. My love is undying and illuminated vibrantly. I call the mists of beauty my palace. I call your harsh breath my crown.
Pollen bruises like the shifting of attention towards the resonant good. Like unearthing and growing simultaneously. Like ascended endings held in concentrated, bodily rupture. This act is a radiant truth, holding me in metamorphosis. Holding my gaze towards the life cycle of sparks and pleading for more. For never ending. It is a manifestation of all the love I have had and a call to the love that I will find. It is a divine intervention, immaculately influencing the places beyond skin, down to the very second.
