the truth be told

i remember him,
as michelangelo.
he painted
forbidden fruit,
as a masterpiece.
i was a sprig,
when he
flattered me.
he took me
to his mouth,
he molded me,
like stone.
his chisel,
carved out
my ass.
i kneeled,
to an invisible
god.
and thanked him.
i was the wheat,
being harvested,
to feed
the hungry.
lips unlocked,
to swallow
my grain.
it was a season,
of fashion,
and dance.
i would dress
pretty.
he would
paint me again,
but the canvas,
was yellow.
the stone crumbled.
i planted
a garden,
wherever,
i was raped,
and it rains.
the rings
of the tree,
tells my story.
i have grown
to be a poet.
my poems,
are my
tragedies,
and my
romeo.

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