Wear that dress.

That dress with those little strawberries.

Red like your blush.

Red like your blood.

So warm, so warm.

Sunkissed like the strawberry fields we know so well.

Your skin is cool, your flesh hard.

Not as hard as it is to fuck you.

It’s cold, metallic pitter patters as I remember that change and change you wanted.

Why?

Why must I have to feel this body of yours that tastes nothing like strawberries.

I miss your flesh,

The absence of rust and creaking.

The obviousness of your strawberry perfume.

As my teeth sink in,

I think about you.

And your skin.