I’ll walk all day  
to find a scruffy daisy,
some wind-bitten weed 
or ornamental grass -
emblem of mean newbuilds.

Few people can still  
stab me with a deft x 
at the end of a terse text, 
right through the thorns I carry 
over my heart like a relic.

But we aren't children anymore,
and I'm done with picking flowers secretly
from other people’s gardens;
selfishly wanting to hold 
each close to me. 

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s