"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.

i don't even care if i die anymore.

- kra