Melanin Intuition

A fertile submission in a dark nest and yet it is believed that beings must be next to each other to touch. In my hive, he prayed for my nectar. With a steady hum buzzing through the forest. I stuck out my tongue, angry that the poems I imagined on his neck could never be written. The trees talked, Screamed when he cut. My flow: mastered by the whistles of Gods breath which is something I cannot cut. Until the posture of my stems burn to accept my strings. Like an innocent genius, I have rejected his artist, Trying to speak silence until we are both united to hear it. {XM}