Somewhere between a flower and a coffin
lies the colorless sunrise outside your windows.
I am devoted and still breathing like the Elin.
You are innocent and still sleeping like the Pothos.
I hold my gaze on your lipstick-stained glass from before.
The tint of your pursed lips is our version of Gray’s portrait.
I have you only until the birds sing from behind the door;
you are not yet cruel, and I am not dead yet.
I have you only until you roam your beloved Lord’s garden.
Tell me who you love today; I will be any woman with ease.
Your face is still so soft, but why must your heart harden?
Tell me who you love tonight; I can be any woman you please.
When I woke with you, I began to see the world’s beauty.
I am still living; you are still pure; I wish for you to love me.
On Being Vane
More by Sawyer Fell
-
With My Mother in My Chest. My Chest
Eight AM, I wake in my father’s home with my mother in my chest.
-
To Relive or to Remember
There was a vacant bathroom outside the church park.
I crawl in beat, destitute, feeding off the radiant waves.
I stare into a warped mirror punched by drunken twilight boys, -
In Knowing You, For But a Moment
On the porch, with grooves of woven twine
embedded into the underbelly of my thighs,
I sit and listen intently for you. My ears perked,
with unruly fire-streaked hair tucked behind them,
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