Roses

he left 18 red roses at my door.

i scattered their petals

in the same graveyard

that his promises lay.

flowers.

so useless.

adorning the dead earth

pretending to remember

life

so that everyone else can live and forget

until they are in the ground too.

i kept the thorns

ran them over my fingers

scarlet dripping from my hands.

he thinks he can win me over

with pretty things

that everyone decided are pretty

because he does not know how to listen.

if he did

he’d know

that beauty is

licking the blood off my fingers

when i am done digging his memory

far into the ground

where not even weeds

will grow from his bones.

roses are pretty.

only because they sting.