He says buying flowers is pointless.
They die, you know –
Never expect them from me.
He prefers something long lasting,
a token to remember him by.
Is that why you colored my body black and blue
with your fingers like crayons?
Did you pray for the bellow of your voice
forever echoed in my head’s hallowed hush?
Did you not kiss me with lips so gentle after
slicing my mouth wide open,
so I could only taste blood?
Did you not plan banquets for my suffering?
You, the head of the table.
You, the guest of honor.
A bare plate lies before me,
while you smirk,
satiated.
Flowers die, he says.
I am the gift that keeps on giving.
messy wisdom 