you wrote a poem once about how i was a flower and you were a monster and you dropped your grape juice on my white peddles you spelled petals wrong and that bothered me but the idea that i was beautiful enough to be somebody's muse well i was willing to overlook the fact that you weren't good with hearts, so of course your faults with words meant very little to me i dreamed in purple once and grape was the taste on my tongue when i woke, which was silly because your poem didn't really say anything about knocking a glass onto me like a paperweight to watch me suffocate as its juicy contents stained me violet i just thought it sounded lovelier as a white lie like you didn't mean to hurt me and it was just an accident
you told me later you made me a flower because they are at the mercy of whoever plucks them from the garden and that's when i knew that you knew you had bruised me purple on purpose i just don't like to think about the part where you are a monster