PTSD

My bed is a rotten rose.
Soft like cheese, the petals wrap around my cold skin and I am yellow once again.
There is no place for me but this sinking center.
I am a pink bitten rat,
sucking on the corner of my sheet like pudding.
I am spread between two breasts,
open and peeled back
lost in soggy, breathy abandon.
My reality is tender but in this sweating rose there is a comfort like dripping water.
Once I am creamy in sleep,
my body lifts like dust,
and I am taken toward the moon
in a cherry dripping with dreams.

– V

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