Before,
you were “He loves me”,
as I picked the maze of
petals from a rose.
I thought you could never
love me not.
A warm hug, the brush of a
knee, even by accident, I felt
a connection as hot as an
Ohio summer.
I could’ve spent days letting
you lay across my lap, looking
up at me between your curly strands.
To kiss every one of the thousand freckles
creating constellations along your body,
wouldn’t have been enough for me.
Though, I still wish I had tried.
After,
our last kiss, I finally heard myself
say “He loves me not” while ripping
dead rose petals.
The truth still floats like a corpse in
the sea. Still, just as dead
as I wish you were to me.
When I think of every grasp of my hair,
every scratch down my back, every
sweet promise suspended on air -
I feel the thorns of rose frames
stabbing into my head.
I know that the rose colored glasses
were just normal frames splattered
with my own blood.
And every old gift from you comes with
the same pain.
Every memory of your eyes on me makes
me feel like I am being tortured by my own
mind. Every freckle looks like a muddy ditch.
Hugs feel hollow. My lap feels empty without
your head resting there.
The flux of emotions winds like
the seasons in Ohio.
Sometimes, it snows in the summer.
Venus Davis is a 20-year-old nonbinary writer from Cleveland, Ohio. They are currently a poetry reader for Random Sample Review. Venus is also working on writing a poetry chapbook inspired by astrology. Follow their twitter for more memes, rants, and the occasional poem: @venusbeanus.
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