maybe if my bones fall apart and sink into the ground you’ll start to miss me. when my bones turn to dust and the rain washes my remnants away and i turn the dirt into a beautiful flower. into something prettier. maybe more delicate. something like a daisy. maybe somehow the planets would align above us and after a steady rainfall that washes away the cold winter and every memory of me and you, my flower will poke through the clean ground. the clouds will part and the sun will shine and there you will see it. in your front yard. the wet green grass and a small white flower. no longer dust on the back of your bookshelf mind but something pretty. no longer bones. no longer pricks and pokes. no longer beating around the bush not being able to say what you feel. it’s there. in front of you. no words needed. straight forward and only one thing left to do. pick me up. in a garden of beautiful things i would always pick you. and i know that daisies never did it for you. they’re too simple and small and trip over their words and you always go for the beautiful. the boldest in the crowd. so go ahead and pick it. pull the rose out of the dirt andĀ prick your fingers on each thorn and bleed until you forget how to do anything else. but don’t come back looking to walk through pretty fields and pluck each petal off of me contemplating if you love me until your raw fingers bleed because red never did look good on me and i will never be the rose you need. my old bones created me a daisy. and that’s all i’ll ever be. and he always loves me not.

remember me

look back and remember me as a raindrop on your favorite flower. water that gets soaked up. easily soaked up by something red and something beautiful. remember me as transparent and small but prominent. remember me as an element. one that can ruin. one that can destroy. that can whip through your town and rip it apart faster than you can say “i miss you” because i won’t forgive you. not now. remember me as a hurricane. destructive and uncontrollable but so intense. the damage looks beautiful somehow. doesn’t it? i wear the same kind of damage on me now. head to toe and wonder if anyone thinks it beautiful like you used to. somehow your fire complimented my rain and i burnt my fingertips and soaked you in as best as i knew how to but i knew. i knew in the back of my brain that water distinguishes fire and some things are too good to be true. especially me and you. i wear my burns now ten months later with pride and sadness and remembrance. and i hope every time the rain falls in our small town, you think of me. remember me.