A rose only grows
by getting watered,
and being
acknowledged
by light. Same goes
with love.
Sandoval
she planted flowers in my heart;
they're beautiful, but they just grow a little too fast.
My dear,
A dead flower for
every finger counted on your hand
and blood roses for
every lover you've had
and then and then and then
there's a knife
for every lover you've had
that I wish were mine
I spotted you, your silhouette
in my hopes for something more
you faded against the viridescent velvet
that trailed flowers and pressed lips to shadowy dandelions
now I sleep with lullabies and promises
morning breaks through the illusion
You gave my confidence power.
Your beauty is like a sunshower.
You're the definition of empowered.
You're soft and sweet,
You are my delicate flower.
the dusty fake flowers
on the grave
remind me of
how i thought you were eternal
the freeze came in the night
it ate the lilies and froze the
water in the pond it killed
the limes on my tree
now the moss and shrubs
are matted to the ground like
your bloody hair that day.
[ i am going in the wrong direction].
Your butterfly flutters
cut the inside of my
stomach
every time
I pass a blooming
flower of
your memory
The mouth of a flower opens-
two lips part, shouting to the sun
to swallow the fields
So light pours over, and
floods out the shadows
and the wind blows
waves of green
the tree is rooted, unmoved
by the tornado of day, which
swirls into the leaves
and folds the twigs of branches
together, clasping like fingers
as if to thank the sky for
all the movement it brings.
I still remember the way
she
laughed.
The darkness in her eyes
glowed
like
obsidian and
the edge of her joke
cut me open
like
a watermelon on a hot day.
I remember the weight
of her body,
pressing
down on me
the morning after a slumber party,
wrestling me
into
submission.
I remember stolen kisses
that meant
nothing to her.
Just girls,
flirting,
having fun...
I remember how her smile felt
like
sunshine
and her hugs
felt like bonfires
and her disdain
felt like cold water
crushing me into the dirt,
a worm at home.
One day,
when the slices of her jokes
and the cold
disdain
was all she showed me,
I packed the
petals of my love
away,
so they could dry
and fade
and be admired in their
glass
jar
resting place.
My first love
never loved me.
My first love
was unrecognizable as such.
My best friend,
I called her.
I couldn't recognize
her flaws,
I couldn't even recognize
my desire...
All I knew was her fire
and it was all I ever wanted.
Every friendship lost
was the result of my own
unrecognized identity.
All these women in my life
became
violet petals
in a glass jar,
kept in the darkest corner
of my closet.
Finally,
I can bring out my jar
and put it on my dresser
and open the lid.
Sweet fragrance fills the air.
I proudly show the
pretty scented display
to guests.
"Look at it!" I say,
begging to be recognized,
to be accepted
by everyone
who isn't me.
I finally learned
to open that jar of violets,
I finally learned to be me,
but my honesty
won't revive
what's dead
and dried.