Last time you called me flower
I punched you in the face.
Who needs a blood bank now?
You like to call me horrifying
things: your wall against the sea,
I go to the herbarium
fortnightly, stick my thumb
in all the pitcher plants (it’s free).
You’re on the bus, hoping
to find yourself at each skipped stop.
Not one more night of you:
sated then dysphoric, leaving me
to quasi-come in the bathroom,
every other woman suddenly interesting.
I’m not your night bloom,
serious and ceroid. I’m the fly
that clawed its way back
from the pitcher’s trap.