It Isn’t Just Injurious To Me

Each morning is a petal plucked
from precious
time.
Bright red petals painted in
fear, planted
right
side up. In sick sand,
death gardens
grow
thieves with love leaves,
drowned in
injury.

Each morning, I am a thief
taking,
taking,
taking,

one more petal,
one more bright red fear,

plucking at love to drown it in injury.