the smell of rain will always remind me of him.

October 29, 2009
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i’ve got a neon sign, my rain
cloud, my won’t let me go hanging
over my head;
“this girl can’t commit” it says
in angry red letters like numbers one and 2
and failing scores.

if internal scars did visible damage,
i must be an old woman by now, limp
skin hanging in folds, a grandmother’s
coffee-splotched hands and knuckles
protruding like saint helens
after the blow.

i held on to the flower he gave me-
the pink one,
that he threaded into my hair.
but the petals dropped one
by one, like dreams that loose their luster.

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