I’d respond but why—
how many times until I learn
your wrath is clockwork,
that your trigger is a petal,
your bullet is a pollen—
that a wound is inspiration.

Maybe outside it’d be different
But in here—
You’re stuck on auto-bravery
and say everything outside
you wouldn’t—
It’s too comfortable in here.

I’d like to sneeze you off;
refuse this coming season,
stomp on all your flowers

You’ll come swarming and
I’ll find solace in the venom—
You’ll cry because it’s true
and sting out all your badness
And I’ll bathe in its brew.

Unfortunate it’s unfortunate,
or else we’d long be over;
fortune is to behold

In this greenhouse,
heat just won’t escape;
the higher you fly,
though you see clouds,
you never see glass.