If we decay, it’ll be divine;flesh to flower, your hand in mine
The forbidden fruit is cheaper than confession. It burns softer, too. Maybe it’s the bottle left sweating on the sink, or the cigarette kissed down to the filter by a girl who can’t quite fill her lungs anymore. “Breathe for me, baby,” they say, but the air won’t stay.
It’s sugar rotting your teeth and the kind of hunger that never asks politely. It’s staying up until the sun feels like punishment. It’s being too young to carry it and too far gone to put it down. Make me holy or make me empty. I don’t know the difference anymore.
Pray for Eden like it ever wanted us back. I bring you what’s left of me, soft and spoiled in the heat. I swear I didn’t mean to take anything sacred.
My body won’t hold itself together. My lungs drag behind me like ghosts, chewing on whatever I couldn’t finish. I confess: I am no better than the ruin I came from. We are all split open the same way, seeds scattered, nothing growing where it hurts most.
Look at what we leave behind. Stains ground into concrete. Ash dissolving in spit. Things that should’ve lived, curling back into the dirt. I breathe in anyway, even when it sounds like something breaking.
If there is a god, they live in the rot. In the places we hide. In the slow undoing.
And if there is a rebirth, It will feel quieter like learning how to disappear all over again.