Dead Flowers

“She loves me.” I pull gently until it comes away with a tiny pop. “She loves me not”, another bloody petal falls.

“She loves me”, pop. “She loves me not”, pop. And so on until the last one is lying on the floor and I’m, once again, told categorically that she does not love me.

None of my women seem to love me, maybe it’s because we don’t talk properly when we’re together, they always cry and beg for mercy and don’t listen to my needs.

Or maybe it’s because they all have an even number of fingers and toes.


Charity Reed
Apr 8 2020

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