by Courtney Bates-Hardy
My heart is an exploded peony;
lilacs spring up in my guts.
Each rib, a delicate daisy—
the petals touch, just so.
The air is heavy and sweet in my lungs,
those pink, folded tulips.
Two petals seal my lips
against trespass, but secrets grow.
My arms reach to pluck one honeysuckle
and taste sweet nectar on my tongue,
but I find my hands are made of leaves,
each finger too green.