After Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss”

my Flowers are my Children,

plucked from the rocks that encompass

my jagged Womb,

still discovering my Nutrients from the soil

hidden deep within the cracks.

your heavenly asphyxiation;

squeezing my Roots,

uprooting my Bulbs

pressing your fingers against my Stem,

drowning me in your passion

while fertilizing my Mind with your


The Stars exploded carelessly,

celebrating our seemingly angelic Kiss

while I covered the flowers that

you had unearthed angrily,

left to brown and shrivel in the warmth.

our Flowers

our Seeds,

blended together in the soil that

our Blood,

our Muscle,

our Minds

cultivated and farmed.

more Mine than yours,


they are strong

they are silent

they still survive

like the Womb they sprouted from

like the mother who birthed them//


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