Seeing the world through different
is a conundrum.
Left eye pink,
right eye blue—
All is somehow stainless steel,
boring and rather bland,
when it comes to romance.
You’ll stick around for food,
or a roof,
or a bed,
but flowers can’t make you love or want or need.
Flowers can’t make you love,
but this isn’t a surprise.
Shouldn’t be a surprise.
vases with sticks,
they don’t make you love.
Memories can make you love,
but they can make you indifferent,
Memories are velvet and sharpened knives
and will never be anything else.
The memory of hot chili eating off your back,
water dripping to the floor from the ceiling,
the blood on the bed,
what would they do but drive away?
Touch won’t make you love.
Hugs complimented by slaps,
sleeping-by complimented by sharp tongues,
they do nothing except trick.
But the warmth of stew,
the draftiness of an old house,
the harshness of a futon bed,
will keep you around.
You don’t know why.
The cold wash of the poison inside your body will
make you stay.
As insult to injury,
sight and scent and sound can hardly make you love.
The sight of someone leaving with another,
the sour smell of the unwashed,
the rattle of gossip.
No flower can make you love.
It is not your nature.
It will not ever be quite your nature.
It is never enough.
No matter violet, daisy, rose, or azalea—
no flower is worthy,
and the thankless lily you might have offered has withered
from lack of care
because nothing survives hardship forever.
And no one wanted a flower from you,
they just wanted you to take one and be silent,
silent as a flower.
It is an ugly flower now,
that lily you might’ve offered.
They tell you it’s okay,
toss it aside and take a flower,
Pretend you’re glad for it.
We’ll welcome you.
We told you lies,
the biggest lie of all that lying is something we consider morally wrong,
Don’t be selfish.
Take the dying sunflower, pretend the red of anger and the white of numbness make rose, and plant a garden.