Dark Muse
07-26-2010, 03:01 PM
Only Red Flowers
She only cares for flowers that are red
because she knows that she bleeds them dry,
and yet the lingering feelings of guilt
are not enough to stop her,
she cannot resist the way they feel
upon naked skin.
Sometimes she wonders if she herself
is but a flower, kept in an invisible vase
upon a shelf, under observation, awaiting
for the day when she too will wilt, when she
will be bled dry.
It is because of this thought she must
prepare herself, though she does not
believe in suicide in a general sort of way,
she does not find anything about life to be
all that regrettable.
She does not in fact wish to die,
which is the very reason why she
keeps the pills stocked up behind the
mirror over the bathroom sink, and why
she carries a razor with her in her bag,
or perhaps a rope, and examines window ledges.
Because she would hate the thought
of being someone else's clipping,
she does not want simply to fade away
and then be thrown out and replaced,
one as good as another.
She reminds herself that she has control,
that she cannot be bled out,
she knows that at any time she can at
least determine her own death,
while she is still in full bloom.
And that would be much less
tragic in her mind than becoming
colorless, brittle, shriveled,
dried up, a thing no longer wanted,
a flower that no longer has a purpose,
no longer gives joy, but makes people
feel sad and awkward about what to
do with it.
She only cares for flowers that are red
because she knows that she bleeds them dry,
and yet the lingering feelings of guilt
are not enough to stop her,
she cannot resist the way they feel
upon naked skin.
Sometimes she wonders if she herself
is but a flower, kept in an invisible vase
upon a shelf, under observation, awaiting
for the day when she too will wilt, when she
will be bled dry.
It is because of this thought she must
prepare herself, though she does not
believe in suicide in a general sort of way,
she does not find anything about life to be
all that regrettable.
She does not in fact wish to die,
which is the very reason why she
keeps the pills stocked up behind the
mirror over the bathroom sink, and why
she carries a razor with her in her bag,
or perhaps a rope, and examines window ledges.
Because she would hate the thought
of being someone else's clipping,
she does not want simply to fade away
and then be thrown out and replaced,
one as good as another.
She reminds herself that she has control,
that she cannot be bled out,
she knows that at any time she can at
least determine her own death,
while she is still in full bloom.
And that would be much less
tragic in her mind than becoming
colorless, brittle, shriveled,
dried up, a thing no longer wanted,
a flower that no longer has a purpose,
no longer gives joy, but makes people
feel sad and awkward about what to
do with it.