What is the flower you were born into?
The scarlet carnations of the new year?
Perhaps the daffodils of the birth seer?
Is it bright honeysuckle you're drawn to?

Or does the warm aster of death make do?
Maybe even narcissus and it's leer?
Well whatever the case, it is not mere,
Character, but rather how love moves so.

You see, my flower was the wilted rose.
I watered that thing and tried (I really did),
Yet nothing came of it, and so I stare,
At the gnawed hole in its roots,
At the salted and maimed dirt,
At the leaking watering can,
And the wilted roses.

Here's what they don't tell you:
There's a dead space in the flowerbeds.