she* enjoyed my stupid poems about red roses and blue violets
even when it didn't rhyme

and *she loved it when i peeled back a little more and wrote about
the thorns and bushes and why we still took flowers from their roots

but she couldn't read about the roses when they died and
i couldn't peel any further; she still reads my poems about
the way i pretend to be someone i am not

sometimes i wish i could blame my blunders on my two faces
pick my scabs - and maybe i will bleed again.