pocket full of posies.
the root of their contoured sketch -
cutting off their veins to invite
them to the lifeless death i see them in -
swaying them back and forth into the
shoulder of the cold, course air -
forcing its brittle petals to crack,
to fall off one by one, piece by piece -
i don't mean to destroy your masterpiece,
but i've tried watercolors for way too long -
you move me to the position of masking my face,
and disposing the waste you create -
you are not alive in this art form
instead, you are transparent. nonexistent.
that's just the nice way of saying
you are dead to this canvased field of art.
sorry you had to be the one,
you just make yourself easy to pick .
