I press my forehead against your cheek,
A hypochondriac child desperately pleas with fear,
“Am I sick? Am I sick?”
 

All the while staring at your face,
listening to your breath in the air,
I’m just being cute and in love,
 

Please, tell me I’m not sick,
tell me I’m not somehow killing you,

Pressed outward, 
Pulled upward,
uprooted,
cast out, discarded,
A no good suffocating weed,

How could I dare root somewhere else again?
Noxious odourous flowers,
I’ve evolved thorns to cut gardeners,
They curl and twist into my stem,
sweet sap runs from the incisions,

You spend your time picking them out,
binding my wounds,
I am well enough to plant,

“Take root, take root.”
You plead with me to nourish,

“I cannot, I am sick, I am sick.”
Sick for wanting to live and grow,

Yet I wish for you to plant me,
To waft of my scent,
To look upon me and call me beautiful,
You do,

But I believe that I am still sick,

Tell me I’m not sick.