dear elise,

in three months rosa's cheeks won't be so rosy anymore and you’ll be standing over an urn watering the ashes in the hopes that your sister will grow back without the thorns.
she’ll leave them buried behind in parts of your heart that you never even thought existed and it’ll sting so much you’ll be screaming at family or rather
the people you’re supposed to call family
to not bring flowers to a flower’s funeral

(i’m digging my fingernails into the dirt and wondering if
god wilted too.)

your sister thought she could hide it behind her petals but she couldn’t and that means you should have watered the roses more, that’s what mum will tell you for years to come, and she’s right because it was her ******* garden you walked right into and tainted with god knows what. because of you, she’s going to cut off her green thumb and bury it somewhere in the corner of the flower beds so it wilts with the rest of her. it still smells like rot these days, why?

why does it feel so different? the kids still drive down to brixton to set their own bodies on fire (**** the witch! **** the witch!) and she still tells you to chew your words twice, maybe three times but be careful not to let the thorns slit your throat on the way down, rosa is too fragile to be wasted on your mouth. you can still change; you’re only fourteen. i’m hoping you will start finding beauty in the spray painted graffiti, the red streaks burrowing roots in your daydreams and cultivating a new garden in the comfort of your head
it’s just much easier that way having a keepsake all to yourself--

please keep her safe in the urn under your bed