4.16.14

The day I stopped hating my hips,the day I welcomed these rosebudsthat had bloomed at my sideswas the day I heard the flowers dying.She said they were flowers fromthe day their love was spoken,flowers that had fluctuated onour windowsill for months,volleying between life and death,unable to water themselveswhile she leaves, licking her lipsand showering in his name.That morning they wilted,parched and empty like my insides,wounded, alone, beautiful and damaged.Their hollow stems shake and fleefrom the garbage disposal like Ishook from his vinegar words.I speak to them in dew dropsand they beam against the window,the symbol of another's love,cradled by my hands.The hands I wrap around my back,just to remember what it feelslike to forget myself.To remember what those undiscoveredcurves and valleys have beento my Magellans, I the onlynative still standing in themiddle of the poppy fieldssweeping away the asheswith gentle, open palms.

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