Meathead Monologue

you were a hotel, not my home

plastic flowers on my bedside table kept me awake at night, knowing that they aren't alive, knowing that water did them no good.
i scraped my hand on them once, or maybe twice, bleeding from the rusty veins i thought were long gone. they're fake and they're sharp and, ironically, they remind me of you. you and your face and your voice and your body-you, you, you. and maybe it's not a bad thing to have flowers that aren't really dead or alive on my side. maybe that's ok. because that's what it felt like when you stood next to me. but, then again, look where we are now.

r.k.