"flower cannonball" they called you, since your stems wrapped itself tightly together like hands intertwined or vines clinging onto a fence or even my teacup mix's claws yanking onto my lace shirt.
they used the dumpster graveyard flowers to create you. despite the vivid color scheme, the cannonballs were nothing short of a beautiful disaster in my head. let an apocalypse happen, i'm already rotting away anyway from the mixture of screwdrivers and the cannonball drinks. let me strain myself clear of hues of blues and black you painted me with. let me sink with these letters tucked underneath my ribcage as my seatbelt for the death sentence. at first, i couldn't understand why you were called a name like that.
now i am understanding love and loss's gravitational pull and the release of that gravity. you were a beautiful disaster, building castles on rubble and driving ferraris on cracked streets filled in with tar. you were nothing short of beautiful, nothing short of death being romantic, and death is starting to look a lot like you now.