You are no prince riding to my rescue.
The castle is long breached, and I still sleep,
covered over by nettles, or roses–
it does not matter which, as long as there is that sting
to thread blood in cursive across skin,
a language of no, though it is unspoken
and sounded in bloom.
Bring me no roses, as I cannot hold
their color of loss, of remembering
the hot metal stink of what drives us,
I will save myself from them, from us,
from you; broken glass
the only vase I own.