things found in my bag on busted up crinkled pieces of scratch paper and receipts
Thursday, May 23, 2013
the violent act of picking a flower.
your bright, blooming, orange, paper mache flowers
i snapped from their stems
now sitting in a glass by the window
sad and lifeless drooping.
they bled and pussed in my hands
the whole walk home
the whole walk my palms
became more stained and stinking.
I never learned how to make a tourniquet for a flower.
So now can you see,
how my scrubbed and soaked and silken hands
didn't stand a chance?
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