Jasmine

If I was pure without frailty,
My blood would be scented of magnolia and jasmine, natural and blessed.
Instead I am tainted, stubborn dirt under the surface of a nail.
My veins are broken glass, shattered with hairline cracks.
I wake up with a sweet smell of bitterness, my imperfection's aroma seeping through.

I'd rather die than inflict love.
An eyelash resting on my face like a tear. No one is afraid of stepping on pieces of broken bone.
Or expect to feel flesh as water, I asked to push my hand into a spirit, and hear the ripple of a heart.
Voices echo like invocation of a memory.
Where does time go once it's over?