you would trace flowers on my skin
with ink, with your fingertips, sometimes a pencil, or a straw
whatever tool you could acquire
because you said that a beautiful girl
deserves beautiful things
i always wondered why you would never buy me real flowers, i simply thought the pollen would affect your allergies
but as we were laying on the floor one evening, you were just finishing up a daisy on my wrist i asked you why it is you are obsessed with flowers and you told me
"when i was 8 years old my mom told me that flowers were the epitome of beauty, because they are pleasing to the senses but they eventually crumble to dust like the rest of us, even the most beautiful. my mom's name was rose and that's what she was. she had a rose garden, and everything in the house had the odor of rose petals clinging to it like a magnet to metal. the smell was always a comfort then but now i cant stand to smell it because it reminds me of her and without her it just smells rotten and wrong. this way, i can associate you with beauty but you will not wither and die just like these flowers that ive traced into your skin will never crumble and fade."
and that is when i realized you were wrong
the stems of the flowers had pulsed with life and the rose that you had drawn on my collarbone elongated it's vines and they slithered in between my rib cage and lodged their thorns into my heart
and that is how you destroyed me
by trying to keep me alive
