She told me I was honey-like
and crushed-raspberry-beautiful.
I was like the color of blood, dried
onto my palms. She saw gold
and sweet fruits, and sunset glows—
she looked at me—
covered in blood. Shrouded in
streetlamp colored yellows.
The feeling of concrete digging
into my palms. There were no
nectarine-sweet words that could soothe
the gashes on my hands and knees.
I was goddess-like, she told me
as she held me under layers of cotton.
Until I gagged on her idea of love.
She told me I was crushed
and raspberries—and beautiful.
Choking on cotton. Honey soaked.
