spring was wicked
soft-fingered, silver-tongued,
pressing warmth into the belly of the earth
until even the stones surrendered.
she let it touch her.
let it settle in her lungs,
trace rivers over her collarbones.
let it wind him through her veins,
like ivy curling into brick,
like a wasp slipping too deep inside the fig.
petals unfurled.
she let the scent of him steep into her skin,
let his hands teach her a softness
her palms were never meant to know.
her ribs split open,
and love rushed in like floodwater.
but spring had betrayed her.
it gave life where there should have been none,
let her roots tangle in poisoned soil,
let her cradle the teeth of a man
who once swallowed her world whole.
she should have known
the jungle does not love its lovers.
it devours them.
vines twist into nooses.
petals curl into wounds.
the well in her garden calls her home,
and this time
she listens.
the ivy still climbs.
but she does not.
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