The blood on your wrist
should be coating veins.
The salt on your cheeks
should dry by morning.
I should feel your heart,
not just your finger tips.
You said it was only fair
to save it for me,
the only girl you ever loved.
I gave it to him instead,
in the backseat on a sidesteeet,
only to be carried farther from the only arms to ever hold me
like they ment it.
I'm sorry I couldn't feel your hands on my eye lids,
begging me to see the love I had
before I found it in the palm of someone else's hands.
My lips are like sunflowers,
but even more fragile.
Every may I am plucked from the garden
and held tightly
for a moment in a field,
until morning dew swallows me whole.
As for love,
my father never taught me how,
and the words he placed at the tip of my tongue never fit in the space between your fingertips.
Keep them for someone else's lips.
Someone who isn't made if sunflowers
that will wilt in your hands.