by Anya
The smallest space you’ve ever known,
trapped inside with just your bones.
The sun is bright,
the smell of orange,
we lay together there that morn.
My ax so sharp,
the light so warm,
the leather on the handle worn.
Your severed head,
The yellow corn,
I looked upon it all with scorn.
The golden pollen filled my lungs,
Blood & butterscotch melted my tongue.
And there laid awake for hours,
watching as you pushed up flowers.
