My blood no longer lusts over humans.
Photographs are sex and
Love can be equated to the grape juice that
Dribbles down my chin and onto the brick floor.
I’ve seen God and she is a black woman.
Papaya skin covers her bones and snow peas hang from her scalp.
I dream of birthday cakes frosted with the yellow paint that falls from my ceiling and
Onto my sheets.
Deep cavities hide in my hair that
Ooze Vivaldi and maple syrup. I touch them until I scream and
My fingernails are painted with blood.
My jeans have turned to rocks and
My chest is a weekend marathon of 7th Heaven.
On the day of my birth the universe held me close and told me that
The Easter Bunny isn’t real and
Jesus wasn’t white and
Valentine’s Day was created to sell holiday cards.
Clouds of vanilla have permeated the Troposphere and
Chrysanthemums sprout up from God’s footprints in the ice.