published 2022, as poetry in Ink Lit Mag 23
I am a flower—dreamily rising to feel morning dew on soft, staunch petals.
You are so cruel to pick me—to unroot me from warm, rich, velvety earth—
to pluck me out of a sea of buttery, sun-filled dandelions and watch as my own petals darken even in the light, beaming skies of day.
I fall limp in your grip, lion face falling, and you tighten your hold, choke up on my neck like you’re playing baseball.
My petals unfold and tumble and you soak me in water, feathers tinged green, faltering, suffocating, until I can no longer be relieved.
To think, I should be grateful.
To think, I should feel pride.
To be the greatest of flowers picked—
I wish, instead, that I could be a rose that pricks your fingers until they bleed, all while you’re desperately stroking my leaves and cradling my flaccid stem—
I’d fight and you’d finally hear my screams—
I wish you’d bleed.
You are so foolish to believe you could choose my love,
pulling petals, “love-me’s” and “love-me-not’s”—
caveats of the truth—
when my love belongs to me
and me lonely.
Shea Winters 