To the Gardener, From the Bath

I didn’t know a bath could feel so dirty

Until now. Surrounded by floating bits

Of your sticky gift to me,

Your only gift to me, white crusted scum like bath salts

I scrub, I scrub, try to clean myself of your dirt,

With your dirt,

I am your dirt.

Plant in me as you wish,

Take your time sowing,

One day, I’ll be growing

Just for you.

So what’ll it be? Plump tomatoes?

Red, full, brimming?

Or eggplant deep

With insides tart?

Stick your shovel in and scoop me

Down to Earth’s core

Where fire casts light on that

Seedy greedy grin of yours

You harvest today’s offerings,

Inhale them root to stem,

And of course, leave no crumbs for me.

My bathwater smells

Like giving up. Like giving out produce

In exchange for cum that slips out

Like molasses, escaping me

Now that I’m picked dry,

Crumbling,

Soiled.

But in the water’s rippling reflection,

In its nauseating waves, I think I might see

You. All sated smile,

And the juice of my fruit still dripping from your lip

Your hairless lip and your hairless chin,

Your genes never let you grow a beard

But even if they did, you’d still look like a boy, swimming

In the clothes you wish your muscles could fill, swimming

In this tub like a small sardine,

Wriggling,

Pathetic,

Slimy to the touch,

Your touch doesn’t give,

It only takes.

But go ahead, dig in.

Relish in the citrus of my lemon parts

As they sting your tongue to shreds,

Bite off bits of my banana fingers

And choke on the mass of mush,

Chew through my spinach jeans,

Though you’ve always hated greens,

You’ll eat anything

That can stuff

That desperate

Fucking mouth.

But little do you know...

Winter is coming

Faster than you can say “feed me”.

It’s the barren season, baby,

My crops are shriveling quick,

And you are left there,

Starving,

Begging for scraps of brussel sprouts.

While I am here,

In my bathtub,

Rinsing myself of you.