February is full of thorns,
the remnants of the roses he got from Safeway years ago
while he was getting meatballs for the spaghetti I cooked,
that are now hooked in my heart,
knocking against my ribcage with every breath.
I see rose petals melt in the pan as I stir the marinara,
love can’t be eaten, yet I am consumed by it.
It is a need to be loved as I should,
it makes me weak, he says,
weak enough to have his lips on my neck.
I imagine that I bleed in bed,
that my heart beats out petals that stain the sheets,
no matter how hard I try, the briars cannot come undone from the organ, pierced into the soft flesh,
a thorn collar from the $5 bouquet he bought five years ago,
the memory is about to be in the deficit,
I am trying to love for myself in this relationship.
He turns away, steals the blanket, lets me shiver
in the mess of my heart, as it spits out roses venously,
falling asleep dizzy from losing love.
I wake up with a garden in the room,
fresh roses in vases, empty soda cans, the old fish tank,
a new man has his arm on my hip,
the sun filters in, seeds germinate in the spots weeds lied,
tended to by soft hands who keep wary of thorns.
My heart beats,
not bleeds,
love,
as love should be known as.
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Art was found on Pinterest.
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Word Not World series is an interactive anthology where I show a picture, and use the words inspired by the picture to make a poem, such as this one. This poem was inspired by the words, “meatball” from my mom, Beth, and “pierced,” from Emily @eo2inspire4u. If you would like to participate in next week’s Word not World series, keep an eye out on Instagram @enis.st.sparrow and here on St. Sinjin, I will post a picture on Sunday.