Seasons of Death

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 bees away,
miles and miles and miles away.
She hasn’t been soaked
in exploding sunrises
in a long time.
 
Her summers
are a different version
of the same tragedy.