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this is the truth:
i do not know how to love.
when i was five years old
someone turned me inside out and
emptied the stars from my veins—
burned handprints into my skin—
invaded the only place i could ever feel
safe and used my own blood
to paint the walls—

love is not desecration.
i do not know what love is,
but i know what it is not.
and it is not destruction.
it is not hurt.
it is not pain.

it is not me, molding myself into something beautiful
for you to adore.

you ask me what i feel, and i say
citrus. i say yellow. i say bloom.
there is enough inside of me to answer a million times,
because i used to wonder what i would look like if
i had plant cells instead of animal cells and now i've got
a million seeds under my skin all bursting towards
sunlight—

(you took my hand and galaxies fell from your hair.
now there are stars in my veins again.)

so this is the truth:
i do not know how to love.
i do not know what to do.
i do not know what to say,
except this:

citrus.
yellow.
bloom.