Most pieces of literature describe kisses
as magical things
as if they are buff knights in just polished armor riding a unicorn with a silky, golden mane as rainbows comes from its hooves, emerging from the dense fog to embrace
a virgin girl and become her savior.
I've been puked on,
I've had children spit on me,
I've accidentally created a gash that
didn't stop bleeding for over a week.
I much rather do any of those
things again than have
to kiss his slobbery,
I've dealt with the pecker,
the slobberer, the doesn't-
know-what-they're-doing, the is-this-your-mouth, the what-do-you-do-with-your-tongue,
and the eyes-wide-open;
Each I was able to help improve,
There was no way to fix it.
When he kissed me, his breath
was as foul as the smell
of rotting seaweed in the fall at a harbor.
Once, we tried French kissing.
I felt like a Tootsie lollipop
and he was trying to see how
many licks it took
to get to the center of me.
He would buy his lovers
clothes, jewelry, and food
to make them like him,
but not enough money
would be able to fix
him and me or his kiss.
It's all in the past now, but
I feel bad for the forlorn soul
that has the absolute misery
to face battle with who I thought
was my knight.
Did The Bee
Did the bee ask before he pollinated the flower?
Her soundless slumber did not invite him in,
Yet not for a moment did he think that he should stop.
Did the bee think about how he affected the flower?
The flower's thoughts are filled with what she could've done.
Her petals curl in tight while he continues to pollinate other flowers.
Did the bee ever regret what he has done to the flower?
The flower has to live with the internal pain every day,
But no one knows what the bee has actually done to her.