Harvest

I remember many days perhaps not intended for me. they were harvesting days, in fields, in towns where little boys won't sit in cheap seats. on winding roads, I would walk, naked and cut; mouth full of salt and blood, wearing the necklace carefully formed by my mother's tears. had I waited for the dark, dripping, dampness of winter, I would have missed the sight of you rising from the dust, fingers at my throat, grasping the pain that encircled my neck, never fully taking hold. you should have saved me. had I waited, maybe the aroma of the smoke-filled skies would have led me to a town where little boys never cared if I were cheap or not; a town where you finally love me.