Say You Like Colors

Dear love, The flowers are not alive, and the vase

is leaking water. It’s a malfunction of me, I know.

Her fingertips leave rust in their wake.

But he doesn’t follow her anymore when

she goes to bed. Say you’re at midnight

poetry reading. Say you love her but

so does he. Say she only smiles for your

wristband-covered waist. Say you have

marks up and down your spine from brown

nights with her. Fondle the top button

of your shirt, but rip off your tie first.

Some nights, you leave before she’s done

handling you. In an old library book,

you remember a found, unsent love letter

to a forgotten mistress from three years before.

            Your cards always came up Devil or Death

            and you’d pretend you had been with

something wise instead. I think I

was supposed to forgive you for that.

You allow yourself to breathe sometimes.

Say you go home alone tonight. Say you

can no longer look at yourself without

imagining her fingers rubbing you. Say you

say you love her but are now unconvinced.

Say it was all just about her rusty hands

and backwards smile. Grab the top of your

knees, covered in khaki fabric and clench hard.

Pretend she’s only thinking of you when her lips

caress the microphone as she speaks. Pretend she

isn’t all dark and black and murk and stuck.

            The marks from you painting

me have still not washed off.

But I can’t focus when I drop bits of brick

colored dead metal when I take a step

out of bed in the mornings.

Say you like how you have to scrub under

your nails when she lets you go.

Say you let her sleep on your chest because

what’s underneath is already lockup.

Say it was for the secrecy. But the secret’s out.

Dear love, I meant to kill the flowers.

I'm not sure about the indented parts... Also this was just a drabble I wrote at like 3:45 am on one of my insomnia nights so if it sucks, I won't be offended. But yeah, let me know.