I’ve never received a flower
Or even a rose
But I’m a guy
So it’s acceptable I suppose
No kisses
Or sweets
No treats
That signifies ones feelings for me
No token of ones love
But I have gotten
Disappointment
Watered with hate
Planted in betrayal
Fertilized with lies
And maintained by fakes
Roses are Red
But my roses are dead
And crumble beneath my feet

he said.
if love is a language I think we got lost in translation.

Hilda died before her time—
just before
her honeymoon—
she’d spent it all,
every dime
she’d made in tips
on afternoons.

she wore her mother’s wedding dress—
dated lace,
a size too small—
but beautiful
nonetheless,
and full of grace,
she read her vows.

she hid her bruises with a sleeve—
finger marks
(his grip was strong)—
she promised him
she’d never leave;
(the little things
we keep in songs).  

he killed her with a forty-five—
had it hid
below the bed—
so what’s it mean
to be alive?
the only ones who know
are dead.

a lot can happen in
f i f t e e n  d a y s

you could go on a vacation
you could get married
you could give birth
you could buy a house
you could get a new job
you could make a new friend

there's so much you can do in
f i f t e e n  d a y s

what did I do in those fifteen days?
I tried to take away my next fifteen days
and all of them thereafter.