Seasons of Death

She loves to savor the colors,
one by one.
He makes her swallow the rainbow
whole.
Her essence
is in the blades of grass.
His hunger
consumes
the wildness of the forest.
 
She hasn’t soaked
in exploding sunrises
nor has she absorbed
the delicate dance of a dewdrop
in a long time.
 
Her spring
reeks of death,
like the revolting smell
of a blooming rafflesia.
He sucks at her breast
in the midnight hour,
pollinating her.
His chokehold
over her existence
keeps
men, beasts, and dreams
miles away.

Her summers
were a different version
of the same tragedy.
But her feet
refuse
to blister on the scorching grounds
anymore.