You wrote a poem about flowers
And foolishly, I expected it to be about me.
It was about water, and thorns, and wilting.
And at the end, despite your intention, I was part of that flower.
       Water was when we met.
I poured my energy and time and thoughts
Into you as if wishing was enough to bring my
Hopes into fruition.
       Thorns were when you said you didn’t want to treat me better.
When you acknowledged the hurt and the pain
And said you wanted me but did not want to change.
So, I took the shears to myself and tried to cut out
Every piece of me that wanted you.
Because I would rather miss you,
Than have you half-heartedly.
       Wilting has only just ended.
You watched as I lost my petals,
Knowing just when to lull me into thinking you would
Remember to water me or
That you ever wanted to.
But today, the final petal has dropped
And it landed on,
“He loves me not.”