I won’t be forgiven for what I’ve made of myself. Soil recoils from my hooked kisses. Pines turn their backs on me. They know what I can do with the wrap of my legs. Each summer, when the air becomes crowded with want, I set all my tongues upon you. To quiet this body, you must answer my tendriled craving. All I’ve ever wanted was to kiss crevices, pry them open, and flourish within dew-slick hollows. How you mistake my affection. If I ever strangled sparrows, it was only because I dreamed of better songs.

— Prelude to Bruise by Saeed Jones