Daffodils
Smarmy cunts.
Hiding from me,
in chattering spheres,
year-round spectres
of a season delayed.
Budding in a darkness
unknown – I will remember
numbness. A yellow that
melts, butter upon
frost, their smooth
openings jar in the
aisles of March
telling me of a sun she is afraid
to feel. Empty vases, the
artist’s stroke for our private
confessions. Unadorned altars
and hymns of closeness she
dispels in the glare of days.
You bring me the moon in
sighs and prickling touches.
Making lust with the bulbs
dimmed, as if our bodies could
flatten the world. I would
like to feel less in your touch.
To live contently in the ridges
of your spine until the light
rises and I am stored away.
I had prepared myself to wither
but at 10am, on a Wednesday,
you saved me with a windowsill.
It is as if you had buried honey
inside of yourself that I was
never allowed to taste. Your
sweetness coating me in a
slow trickling of sticky warmth.
Daffodils bloom beside
your bed, mine.
Laura Gibbs is a final year English Literature student at Durham University. She likes writing about taboo emotions and her identity as a lesbian. To see more of her work follow her @lauramusing on Instagram or see her link tree