Stolen Cherries

My tongue twists itself

into laurel wreaths, speaks

of victory even as it tastes defeat:

grand optimist. Knows it cannot win every battle it fights.

The scent of blood as my teeth drive stakes into my cheeks -

“Check your words before you speak,” they say.

My lungs breathing life, death and all between

into the chaos of this life I lead, I

feel my pupils dilate,

my heart beat palpatate,

fists clench, fight or flight and I do

neither.

Cannot run from whatever this feeling is,

cannot fight it either.

Every word I choose is picked, carefully;

like cherries blooming red from trees we do not own,

we gather them, share them, and I

stain my fingers the same colour as hers

even as we lick them clean,

pick the flesh of them from our own -

their seeds, bones, far too easy to swallow.

Like words. Like love, like

far too easy to cover up.

But it never stays hidden for long.

Bury the seeds and the trees will grow -

hide a secret and she will know, you know

she knows you too well to hide anything for too long.

Why would this be any different?

You speak of courage, tongue dripping with irony;

tell others to chase love no matter the futility

whilst you hide and try to forget it.

Tell yourself it isn’t fair to ask,

to chase what may not even be there to catch.

Tasting defeat, too afraid to try and ask if victory

is even an option.