devotion to a cruel sunflower girl | poem
♪: me and your mama by childish gambino
🌻
i wanted you like fever dreams,
like fire licking my throat raw,
like the first taste of sin after midnight.
you smelled of sunflowers and smoke,
danger braided into bronze strands
of hair tangled with leaves.
your freckled skin glowing
under neon lights.
you were a warning painted golden,
and i ran toward you anyway.
this wasn’t the first time.
it wouldn’t be the last.
your sand-dusted hair brushed my face,
the scent of rebellion and rain
clinging to you as you pressed me into shadows,
the thrum of the club beating through us
like a pulse we shared.
“don’t tell,” you’d whispered,
but your body told me everything.
the way your fingers traced
the lines on my choker,
your lips bruising mine
like they had a hundred times before.
do you remember the river?
that summer, when the sun stretched
so long it felt like time had stopped.
you dragged me barefoot
to the water’s edge,
your white and yellow dress fluttering
like a sunflower bending toward the light.
you held a frog in your hands,
its tiny body trembling as it
stared up at you.
“i think he’s scared of me,”
you laughed, and i wanted to tell you
that i was too.
but you let the frog go,
and in that moment, i thought maybe
you’d let me go too.
but you didn’t.
the air was electric, heavy with heat,
and we were just other feral creatures,
lost in the flicker of purple strobes
and the glow of streetlights bleeding
through the cracks in the walls.
you kissed like you owned me,
like i was a hymn meant to be broken,
and i let you. i always do.
your tongue hummed ruin against mine —
a guitar string snapping in the dark,
a sound so sharp it carved through me.
i could hear it,
the shattering of my devotion,
the phantom weight of his name
slipping between us like smoke.
but even then, i couldn’t stop.
i let you devour me,
because in that moment,
you were the only religious thing
i believed in.
do you remember the fireflies?
the first night by the river,
when we stayed long after the sun disappeared.
you played your guitar,
the melody hushed against the breeze,
your fingers plucking at chords
while i tangled my hands in your hair,
twisting strands between my fingers
like i could weave myself into you.
you said you’d never leave this town.
i lied and said i wouldn’t either.
leather stroke against your skin,
my eyeliner smearing on your neck.
you smelled like the earth and
i wanted to bury myself in you,
to become the butterflies you drew,
the purple crystals you collected,
and the frogs you laughed at
just to stay on your tongue
a little longer.
you took and you took,
until i was nothing
but a breathless wreck
shaking in your hands.
you looked at me like i was holy,
but we both knew i wasn’t the one
you were trying to save.
“does it feel wrong?” you murmured,
and i only laughed —
sharp and bitter,
because, yes —
it was wicked and unbearable.
but it was also the only place
i ever wanted to be.
i would’ve stayed in the madness,
drowning in the glitter of your lies,
forever.
but you weren’t built for this,
for me, for us.
you kissed me to prove something,
to yourself,
to the world you couldn’t face.
you kissed me like a promise
you had no intention of keeping.
and i let you.
god, i let you.
when you pulled away,
the freckles on your cheeks flushed,
your lips swollen with realization,
you said it again,
“i just wanted to know."
and i knew it was over — again.
you left me to the dancing shadows
with your boyfriend’s ghost,
your guitar strings ringing in my ears.
but you’ll come back.
we’d do this again,
and i’ll let it everytime.
because when i was with you,
i didn’t care who burned —
me, you, or the whole goddamn world.