The Things We Don't Talk About

Bouquet of Flowers

This was long ago, but I remember
that one Friday when my car broke down
in the middle of December
as snow was falling down.

I walked along the side of the road,
watching as the attractive but poisonous Christmas roses became hidden, covered by snow,
until I came across a convenience store.
And it was so cold
as I walked through that door.

You were working, stocking the beer,
but when I walked in,
you heard me talking to the cashier,
and that's where our story begins.

You gave me a single fake rose and said something cute,
and I fell for you.
And like you were my parachute,
you fell with me too.
And we fell absolute.

And we did the whole thing,
champagne, heart chocolates,
you handed me a diamond ring
and a bouquet of flowers,
and told me to forget
all the fighting,
all the crying,
all the anxious nail biting,
the "who is right?",
"who is wrong?",
the "baby, I'm so sorry",
and you swore to God
that you loved me tonight
and that you'd love me always.

And I happily took the ring
and procured my suffering.

And they told me I was crazy
when I forgave you for the hundredth time,
accepting your apology flowers once again.
But love makes you do crazy things.

And I loved you
and I thought you loved me too.
I was naïve,
afraid that you would leave.
I was more afraid of being alone
than of my very own gravestone.

You watch me go,
knowing I can't stay.
After this last blow,
the rope's too frayed.
One more try,
I won't be alive,
just like the flower I asked you to water while I was away
that you let die.
I can't absolve you this time,
but I know you expect me to.

And I stayed awake for 42 hours
on pure adrenaline,
waiting for an apology or maybe just flowers.
But you just wanna win.
And it's not fair
that you expect me
to pick up all the pieces
and always say "sorry".

You never take the blame
and nothing's your fault.
But I just can't take one more assault with a bouquet of flowers.
And I regret the day I took your last name.

I'm not alright and I'm not okay.
You broke me down and you won the fight,
but you lost me along the way.

So I hope, for you, that you get better.
I wish I could say it was good while it lasted,
but we're far gone from your first love letter and bouquet of flowers.
And I'm past it—
all the scared all the time,
all the hiding all your crimes,
all the crying when you're gone
and fighting hard to hang on,
the "maybe you're too sensitive",
"you know you will, so just forgive me",
the "I'm not violent, I'm just passionate".
You swore to me
that you would love me always.
But, honey, that's not love.

In truth, we started out with a love,
a fairytale romance,
but very soon, all that fell,
and I'm trying hard not to give you one more chance when you send me that last bouquet of flowers.

Because, unlike you, when I said "Yes",
I meant that I would love you always.
And I do.
But I hate you because I do.
And I hate you because I wish I didn't.
And I hate you because you lied when you said "I do".

But it's over now.
I'm done.
I take back my vows.
Congratulations, you won.

And I don't want an apology or any flowers,
and I won't pick up all the pieces or say "sorry" this time.
I've been asleep for 17 hours.
No more nightmares or trying hard to stay awake
because I'm afraid you'll wake up and strangle me in the middle of the night.
No imagining bouquets of flowers being laid near my gravestone
by my inconsolable mother, father, brothers, sisters, who warned me obsessively
that this would happen.
No—just peace of mind
for the first time
since I met you
in that convenience store
on that Friday
in December.

I fought the fight and I survived.
I'm sending back your flowers and heart chocolates.
Our story's over now.
Goodbye.

Don't write me again.