I picked my mother a bundle of
But she called it a bundle of
She knew they were weeds, I know.
And still she set them in water with a bow.
The killer on display.
The Contra in a vase.
I know the yellow of my pedals.
I know the wilting of your garden.
I know what I have done.
I know what I’ve become.
So pick me from the ground.
For that, you have my permission.
Just please don’t throw me out,
Although I am your affliction.
Wrap me in ribbons from your hair.
And leave me on the counter, there.
Your killer on display.
Your Contra in a vase.