Every love I’ve ever had has killed me,
they instill my mind with their earth soil eyes,
Fueling my desires with their hands,
Imagining a future with him, enjoying him
watering me with artificial fulfillment.
When I was little I used to love plants,
their saturated skin and admirable growth.
And so I picked them. I only took the pretty part,
no roots, a little bit of stem, though surely
the whole flower. I framed them in my hair
like a medallion on my neck. Until the pretty part slowly
wilted into a monotone fade. I didn’t care
for the floret when it stopped blooming
into something beautiful. Then I’d pick the petals,
one by one, and throw them away.
I was his flower.