I am leaving butterfly kisses on flowers that I grew from my body
and you have the audacity to try and pick them for yourself
to spit on the soil they were planted in
the rain they are fed
whispering do you see what she did
did you hear what she said
kicking up dirt to cover up the sun
I may let the first cut ache before taking aim
but I am not your prey
and I will not run from wolves like you
from my second poetry book,
The Lovers.
