Revenge, Sugar And Sweet

dewy red roses

So mildly sweet that she can taste it–

like how strawberries sometimes taste like blood.

The rain cleanses the surrounding air

of the vileness of his perfume,

the one he uses to lure foolish women.

Still, she cannot help but wonder why

the crimson roses oozing rapidly out of his ivory shirt

speak to her of the flowers he once gave her backstage

before she performed “On My Own” on Broadway.

He told her to make him cry.

Mizpah, he whispered to her then,

“The Lord watch between me and thee,

when we are absent one from another.”

The Lord watches as she

grew a garden in her own chest

at a leisurely pace every year.

She comforts herself with the fact

that she has finally made him cry

by luring him to a puddled field,

her right hand caressing his body gently,

her left

holding a mirror shard

that tore flesh and made it ooze


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