For my flower from the gutter

I clean you, wash your feet,
Caress your bruises and aching bones,
With turpentine kisses.

They burn the wounds, leaving scars,
Pain is rememberence,
The promise that you will never forget me.

Barbed nails,
Cut with a passion so violent,
Flames braise skin pallid and cold.

The chill in this street-lit air diffuses the
Breath from your tight lungs,
Whittling the soul down, down.

I love to feel you,
But again you hurt me,
My gutterflower.