Because of Lumi, I did a thing.
She Never Drank Tea
She was always fascinated by flowers after the rain.
She said they looked like freshly-painted walls in an infant's room.
They're clean, she thinks, and whole; not dying yet.
And though she knows if she picks them, they'll wither from her cold breath,
she knows she must because there's a sadness
that creeps in if you leave the leaves alone
and walk away without taking them to hold.
Petals don't taste when they fall into cold cups of coffee,
but neither does blood that seeps from under her nails.
If she white knuckles the handle hard enough, her skin molds to the ceramic.
The heat recedes though, and leaves her to once again feel the cold
of summer nights against her thighs.
The bruises that flower across her skin,
they are angry burns that fade all too quickly,
and then she replaces them.
When she blows hard enough,
tears roll off her face like seeds of dandelions
blown into the wind.
And she fantasizes
that they become the stars she watches
when she can't sleep at night.
She never said why her favorite flower was a dandelion.
Cups are dirty after they're used, but she hates to wash them
because the stain of coffee reminds her that she made it through another day.
She cannot hold still anymore; she paces the bathroom floor,
resisting the urge to cough up her secrets so she doesn't have to hold them anymore.
She's finds it harder to look out the window now, to see the cars flash past.
No one ever sees the beauty of the morning anymore.
The flowers she's picked have wilted their slow way to death.
And her skin falls off in flakes and becomes the petals for new flowers.