crush thesecertain flower petalsthe pulp redhot beneath your fingerssticky, sweet, spicywhat it touchesit changesdeepening gracewe will ascend likedoves into the heavenssee the downupon your skin,once red as sacrifice,now white as papercrush thesewings against thewindowpanesyour bed forgottenhands fadingmemoriesthis new shapecannot grasp On Twitter, Kaleidotrope (a specfic lit mag) gave a spam writing prompt. I’ve seen those…