the pest.

it is the most glorious thing.
it is a celebration.
it is who we are.
it is the whitest of clouds,
the reddest of roses,
the loveliest of hyacinths,
the most lustrous of violets.

i pride myself on it,
the feelings i call my own.
it is mine,
it is mine,
and it is beautiful.

i bathe in its wonders,
but my body cries in the bitter words.

the flowers bloom as long as my happiness stays,
but the crushing creeps at me in the corner,
the blank space as i sleep on the bed,
the unrequited, the deprived out-stretched arms.
the crushed boy
and the dangers of pests in the garden of eden.