A Flower Red.

along the leather carpet there are scratches,

numbers crying into the floor.

there is a figure to the left

her clothes to the right.

she stares at the wall

breathing through your lungs.

we know the stories

of evil wolves,

of beasts waking up

and attaching bone

to skin

to the flesh

of the women left behind.

be kind,

she mumbles,

and summons her speech like a spell –

I know the pain of a man

And I

Pity those who are tired,

Don’t listen to me scream –

the background flickers

as her words walk,

barely a whisper

beginning to whimper.

I am trying to help you,

He is not on earth to love you.

he exists to cut down from the roots

a flower red

rose from the ground in contempt

like the sun

when we pray for it

like the son

who died and crawled back,

for the sake of it.

 

you feel her pain,

taste it

as it splashes against the sink.

 

two more wishes left

three more bottles down,

you’re a pretty good shot

when you want to be.

-Victoria Daka

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