my fingertips comb the hairs on your thigh,
an evergreen flesh; my lips press upon your chest,
but i must ask,              is this what you need?

my bare shoulder intercepts your blossoming
kiss, and i fear my nakedness offends your loss,
but you insist                          this is what you need.

you aim to forget, for a lustful moment,
how you watched his chest wilt and crumple,
but i still think,                                   is this what you need?

your family members rip dozens of peduncles
from the soil to place in your hand, but you say
that something dead                     is not what you need. 

will my hands, my tongue, my red canna expel
the pathogens from a mind you yourself call warped?
you told me,             this is what you need. 

you joked about falling just far enough from
his infected bough; your addiction is less lethal,
though still a blight                 that you do not need. 

i desperately desire to twist my stems around yours,
to absorb the pain you have pushed to the epidermis,
to drain this feeling,    the one you never needed.

– Abigail Jensen