Solitude, I learned is an ugly thing up close.
so I wove wreaths of begonia whose intricacy
was meant to be construed as beauty suggestive of passion
supposedly hidden under sutured yellow petals
whispering finely practiced words of deception
I used to lead you on and have you
stay with me in exchange for the petals
I wove with my hands that I now
press painfully on my lap.
out of shame, if nothing else.
you still wear the wilted petals of begonia that remind me of dreams
about white picket fences that we used to etch our names on,
around carefully carved hearts that became relics
of the past I want to get rid of
Our past mostly consisted of nights spent
under pink satin sheets we used to make love under,
a ritual succeeded by another ritual
of staring at myself in the mirror and feeling the hands
from which shameful realizations manifest:
i held yours not because I loved you
but because I was dwelling in the overwhelming fear
of solitude.
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this is my FIRST stab at poetry so if I didn't quite hit it, feel free to bury me alive. :D
