I’ve started picking a flower
for every day you do not love me back.
It’s almost therapeutic, to kill and die at the same time.
I’m emptying out with every he-loves-me-not;
it’s been a while since I’ve felt so un-full.
The scent of lavender follows me everywhere now
and people are asking after my new shampoo –
they don’t realize I scrub myself raw
every morning with my loneliness.
Father never told me love makes you so undone.
I remember the day the mirrors cracked
beneath my sorrow, and I wonder if his bones are breaking
like mine –
I’m trying to tell him I’ve stumbled into love
with the way he holds her hand and how
his eyes change color in the daytime. I’ve seen them
all the shades of autumn
He has started leaking sunlight.
Rivers look like cradles more and more every day –
I’m making my bed every morning
with the intention of never coming back.
The willow tree on the bank dips its toes in the water,
as do I, and I feel a fantastic belonging.
I spelled out “I love you” in rose petals,
then let them wash away.
I have never felt so quenched
or so cold.