he asks me why my tongue tastes like rust
when my lips look like rose petals
soft, pink, blooming beneath his breath
baby girl, he says, why are your kisses corroding?
I tell him the iron that turns my blood red in its veins
also makes my mouth brittle
I am not a flower grown in nature;
my thorns have been welded by men’s fingers
I tell him that iron is formed through some fusion
in the stars of sufficient mass, like the sun I was forged under
malleable in the hands of men
bent on being stronger than the elements they’re made of
I tell him I am a toxic metal when ingested
not the gentle creation you perceived before first touch, but
please, if making love to me is poisonous
pretend you can’t taste the iron in my pulse
the conversation quits and I grin against his lips
his tongue tastes nothing like fire
Sarah Crawford is a lover of Shakespeare, theatre, and Coca-Cola. She’s currently in her first year studying for her MA Honours in English at the University of St. Andrews in Scotland. Though she is passionate about all thing literary, poetry has a particularly strong hold on her. More of her work can be found at http://soontobearose.tumblr.com.
