Time ticks by
One moment it's
December snow
Then suddenly;
April showers

Then the May flowers came
Those secret devourers
September was a sigh,
Relief from August terrors

October bloomed regrets
November numbed them
But regret doesn't leave
It turns into something vast

And then we're left in June
With nowhere to run
Nowhere to hide
Left with mistakes
That eat us up inside

When you bought me flowers
every petal felt like a debt,
a heavy weight in a fragile vase.

Sunflowers, because they were yellow
I said they were my favorite like the color—
perhaps just to comply, to appease.

But truly, I like roses
in all their simplicity,
no hidden promises.

Will a bouquet ever feel the same
or are all flowers
just silent obligations?

I shy from kindness offered too quickly
wondering what it's meant to buy.

It was never a necklace that I wore—
but a bruise in cursive, spelled out by teeth,
a coerced surrender, etched in violet.

Often, flowers bend toward the sun—
not from longing,
but because they have no choice.

And like a flower’s petal,
each refusal fell—
until none were left to fall.

Not all blooming is voluntary you see,
some unfurl only to escape the dark.

Lightning is a destructive force
It is not a curse to never see
It's fury strike the same spot twice
We should take it as a blessing

In tarot, the tower card has lightning
It symbolizes truth, necessary lessons
The upheaval and destruction that follow
There is a beauty in it's violence

In it's crashing fury, we grow
It's a shock back into reality
When we fall too hard, sink too deep
A slap that wakes us from the siren lures

You called on Valentine’s Day,
out for dinner with friends.
Their confused laughter in the background,
a soft ambiant noise of the world around you.

You said, Let’s pretend, just for fun,
that you’re here, sitting right across from me.
So I smiled, and I closed my eyes,
letting your words paint the moment.

I imagined the clink of glasses,
the soft rustling of menus,
I let myself be transported there,
as if this was a reality we could share.

And for a while, I let myself believe
that this was what it could feel like,
if we ever crossed the line between pretend and real,
between the almost and the never.

But as always, the laughter faded and the call ended,
I was left with the ache of what could never be.
Just another moment of ours,
in a world of make-believe.

And so, I sat in the silence
after we hung up, I felt trapped there
still only in the realm of "what if"
where love always lives just out of reach.

You called the night before Valentine's,
a normal call, out of nowhere—like always.
Said, Let’s pretend, just for fun,
that we’re each other’s valentines.

And I played along, like I always do.
Like I haven’t spent years loving you
in the spaces between our calls,
in the silences after we say goodnight.

You told me to pretend you'd sent dark chocolates,
the only kind I'd like, you made sure to ask.
Along with of course, a bouquet of roses—
but curiously you said you’d kept one stem for yourself.

So I’d know that when yours wilted,
it was time to send more, you said.
And for a moment, I let myself believe
that love could be that simple, that beautiful.

But of course, it was only for fun, right?
Just the quiet truth settling in my chest—
that no matter how much love lingers unspoken,
we will always be something imagined,
always a story that never steps past pretend.

The anger festers, bubbles and boils within
The steam rises off my skin
And I feel explosive
Why is it
Men always get the last word?
They pressure,
They guilt,
They can be so persuasive—
But the moment you show any sign
Of rage
You are suddenly the problematic answer
To all the questions never asked