the flowers are dying.
She is crying.
Time has passed and summer days have turned to frozen cascades.
The cats curled, purring away, nestled tightly under the covers of a duvet.
the flowers are dying,
They are dried and flaked. Held together by her restraint.
To not hold their delicate frames.
Once red, now a deep burgundy.
His calls have become a silent decay.
The flowers are dying.
No water can revive or soften their petals.
She weeps, insufferable.
What is she doing here?
The flowers are dying.
No. She laments. They are Dead.
About the Creator
Vesselostatsea
@vesselostatsea
Insta @_anniehall__
Poetry, Adolescents, Life
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Discriminate
Authors note: I originally published this with no explanatory note, after a conversation with my partner in which we both agreed that no one would think these were my views, it was sufficiently over the top for it to be evidently a caricatured collection of some of the "microaggressive" things that can be said by people of one race to those of another. And lets be clear, I had in mind a white man talking to a black man in a country in which white is the majority. I wrote this after a conversation I had at work about the idea of microaggressions, in which we thought about who they were micro for - for the speaker, each of these comments may feel "micro", for the receiver, maybe not. I chose some of these lines carefully and deliberately, most of them are things I have heard said. But I wanted to come back and make absolutely clear that this is not a poem representing my views. We thought I didn't need to, but perhaps its not actually so very over the top as a caricature. Perhaps its a little too close to the bone. Perhaps that I would assume otherwise is in itself an illustration of my privilege.
By Hannah Moore2 days ago in Poets
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