Sawyer Fell

I am still determining who You are. This is similar to religion.
You do not have to be bone under flesh under clothes;
You can be the questions I ask when I am the only one in the room.

The gum sends down a burn to my throat,

I argue with myself if I love it or not.

Its spice is grown from lifeless pleasure,

and distaste has become a full dinner.

Is the rush to my head still worth it?

“Men are dogs,” I say to my friend as she kneels at the foot of her bed, like a child waiting for her mother’s strong arms. Yet, I am her friend tonight, so my scrawny arms make a cheap cradle.

Galore are the hung fruits.
Their ample flesh and roundness;
their cherub cheeks reddened
from the pinching of a breeze.
They are tapered to branches
dangling perfectly, prostituted
for their flavorful innards.
 

In the crisp embrace of my russet leaf patch, 
a Queen Bee reigns supreme, Her presence unmatched. 
Her saintly swarm rustles me, yet I am blessed, 
for She brings forth the chilly scent of ember rest. 

In the prior Autumn, the air smelled of leaf carcasses
and her abundant unused potential.
In efforts to cope she wrote of downpours,
breakup boots, and predicted wasted experiences.
She rebelled against her own sense of self, yet