The Sacred Flower

I toss and turn on my bed,

Calmed, by my hands meeting the rosy flesh

The flower; they call it

Mine is a wild one, I comprehend

My hands trace the journey 

Through the bushy wilderness

And come upon the floret’s petals

And as I caress its innermost bud

Dewdrops appear

I barely muffle the delicate moans

That begin to escape my parted lips

For the flower within me blooms

As beautifully as the spring

Oh, only if they heard me now

Me, a despicable, disgusting being

Because my flower must await

A man, my husband, my only reason for living

Yet I don’t understand

Why it withered under his manly touch

Maybe it’d take another season

For dew drops to be seen.