Most nights, I dream
in the scent of honeysuckle.
I lay alone in a bed of honeysuckles,
aching in the dark.
Most nights, I want
men who are also hummingbirds,
seduced by my colors.
Most nights, I want
to be eaten, my nectar sucked,
wholly consumed,
devoured.
One day, a man will drink
from the honeysuckle
blossoming between my legs.
How I would give anything
to make a home
out of his mouth.
I am a woman. I am
honeysuckle. I exist
to be consumed.
How I would die
to live forever
in a man's garden.
YOU ARE READING
eating the moon
Poetrycatalog of small tortures highest ranking: #2 in poemcollection © z. t. corley, 2023
