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Pink Petals Never Made it to the Crystal Underneath the Vase


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Pink petals, young and unhealthy, their

reflection painted on crystal beneath the vase,

hanging to honey loose in the center,

pink petals

swinging with a hatchet motion,

as you pick up your fork

and you eat what’s on it,

chicken and mushrooms and

your little hands move and move,

pink nails, hard, delicate fingers, and

caressed, maybe,

by some boy out in the back yard of

your friend’s house, by

the barn, painted red and white,

when it was still warm out;

maybe you had a drink in the other hand,

and maybe your cheeks flushed with the

agony of

“you lost control that night,”

flushed with

secrets you haven’t told anyone

yet and

cheeks rosey with

the poison in your blood.

you don’t wear pink but

she goes around with a bracelet on her wrist,

pink beads nesting between a pink braided rope,

and you look her in the eye and

call her your sister.

you call her your sister but

you don’t see her as anything more than a replacement,

someone to vent to when your other sister’s not around,

when your other sister’s out with her boyfriend -

her boyfriend is what you call her replacement of you,

and you don’t even look at her anymore.

the pink flowers in the vase don’t make it past a week,

and you pretend not to notice the ashy pink crumbles of a

carnation’s old beauty

blushing on the crystal;

the pink petals finally fall,

but where were you

when they were hanging on?



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