Sawyer Fell

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.

To be a woman is to be a banquet. 

Eclectic, savory, distinguished. 

A summer potluck of femininity; 

a Thanksgiving toast to masculinity; 

an Easter brunch with androgyny. 

I wish I had found the butterfly before I knew how to kiss.
Then, I would have kissed you without a flinch.
I would have slept with you until the day was missed.
I would have stayed out of pleasure instead of lust.

I learned that butchering purity is ungodly,
yet on the silver platter, I see a snow lamb as fired slabs.

When I am furious with Change, I berate it;
“I am tired of your unrelenting beatings,
tired of your latency, then rapidity,
tired of your inconsistency, no warnings.”

The kitchen will be used.
The pantry will be emptied
and then promptly refilled.
My pillow will be creased,
and my sheets will be wrinkled.