Thought I’d felt my heart stir. Make my hands into shovels and dig up the garden, again. Goddamned, I am. There it is, feeding the weeds. © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)
You cut me with your scalpel tongue; a precise line, fine. Oh, the pretty heart break; gorgeous crimson beads. Beats, one hundred bpm–dropping. I remember when your lips dripped honey; I licked the declarations, greedy for all of your affections. Doctor Love, you’re the death of me, slow–cruel.