by Stephanie Clauson

I never was the golden one

to walk among the clementines,

to wander through the sacred vines,

I never asked you not to fade --

you never asked me why.

Where are the roses now?

This pen is black, the edges

of my heart are turning gray.

Why do I write around the sky?

A tongue takes root more quickly

than a pomegranate seed

when candy lips curl soft around

a whisper sweet as sin --

there are no spaces left to fill

and something's caving in.

So tell me how it feels to be

the only one to feel at all,

or close your angel eyes

and watch me bleed.

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