Mama,
You could make everything but me grow and bloom and blossom.
I always loved  things more when they were wounded, dying, dead.
Do you remember, mama?
I would crouch in the dirt with some pitiful wounded creature,
Waiting and watching as it shuddered and squeaked and died.
I buried them with my own hands, mud caking my arms.
There are shadows you never saw in me, mama, but he does.
He reaches for them and they reach for him and I am happy.
When we kiss, I can taste pomegranate on his lips.
It is bitter and red. I could drink and drink forever.
Nothing about him scares me.
I am the only one who can make him stop howling.
He says he hears them all the time – the souls, mama –
But I bring him peace.
Who wouldn’t want such power?
I used to bruise like petals as a child, but not anymore.
I am his and he is mine and, mama,
I am finally, finally mine.
I’ll see you come spring.