the doctor told me

that my hunger for beauty

made me a viscous aesthete

march may be a lovely thing

a delicate purity ring on a lady's finger

and april may be the new may

but i've marked it on my calendar with a frowny face

for such inconsistency and restriction cannot be handsome or sweet

i ingest the bliss

line my insides with pollen

block my intestines with cheap perfume

i chug a bottle everyday, you know

the doctor held aloft a single clinical finger

stunting my babbling stream

and she prescribed me bright yellow tulips dipped generously in bluebird's blood

"smell the destruction deeply, once each day. waft it towards your nauseous nostrils and inhale until you pass out" she advised

my startled gasp could be heard from the waiting room

i hit the ground with no other sound than a thump

and woke up drenched in something else's blood