A flower has begun sprouting from my neck — look 
at how the petals flutter, snow at your fingertips. Its stem runs
down my trachea, taking root in my lungs. Love, my arms
have turned flaky brown. Feel the roughness 
under your fingertips, see how it peels under your touch. I am 

sorry. I am trying to stop it. I carve out the flower
every night, take it by the neck, yank the roots out, crush
the petals into paste and whisper a spell. Now there are
bits of my flesh left inside the mortar and pestle. Now there are
thorns growing out my fingertips. I am reaching for you. I am 

sorry. I don't know how to love without drawing blood. Love, 
your hands are a pair of golden axes cupping my face. Tell me
you love me, tell me you will love 
me as a bunch of wildflowers, or a kapok tree, or 
even as a parched cactus on a windowsill. Love, sometimes

I don't want to be touched. My eyes have turned 
into vines, my body all hardened bark. Take
my arms, turn them into a chair. Take
my legs, turn them into a book. Take
me, and turn me into something you can use.