Wilted

Uproot me every once in a while

and wash me of the ground that I carry between my toes.

De-thorn me of my thoughts thought out loud because they hurt,

and dethrone me in the process,

put me in a vase; watch me die.

 

Petal by petal, leaf by leaf, I expose you to my idiosyncrasies,

witness me curl my fingers as I rip apart every sweater,

with my hair becoming static from the constant stripping of all

warmth I ever gave to myself, until all I carry is faded pollen

thoughts that crumble onto the mahogany of your table

and then brush them into a dustpan and throw them into the

basement of your psyche, amidst haunting

temptations to love me (I’m dying, we all are).

Do not deceive me by watering me, we both know you’re

only drowning my corpse, and if you do, sink me during dawn

in your bathtub, with all my thorns – I wish to revel in your blood,

in your agony,

in the fact that something stings you after

I prove the concept of mortality.

 

Watch me wear the colour of dead roses on my lips;

beautiful flowers were never meant to live.

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