Dirt
You've turned into dirt.
Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
How does it feel to be this vulnerable?
To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?
To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.
These eyes fall on you now,
they feel guilt,
they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
they feel like a murderer.
They run to drench you with water.
The poor white tulips,
and the poor pink roses
will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
Here is to those bouquets of flowers the lucky ones received.
Perhaps, you were lucky,
perhaps the flowers were not.
PS. I've written a poem after a year so it's definitely not my best work, not even close. Perhaps as I continue, it may get better?
