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