Greenhouse of Glass

They tell you
that my skin is too sacred
for you to dwell in,
like my body is a house made
of glass and they don’t want to see
traces of your soiled hands
smeared against the panes.

I tell them
my skin was soiled
due to their pious ways long before
you ever touched me.
If anything, my body was a rotting
garden, and you were uprooting
my doubts and dirtying your hands
with my once wicked ways.

You tell me
my skin is ripened fruit;
scab your palms against bark
as you reach for me.
Brush your fingers along my cheek
like one bite could equal paradise
and you are so undeserving.

I want our endless possibilities planted on my lips,
I want my words to twist
like ivy
toward you, toward this,
an us, no matter how dirty
your hands or my past
may be.

The facts remain as these:
I bloom under your touch.

You are my garden of plenty.

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