always her, not me

i know more 

than you think. i’m not stupid 

anymore & there are only so many places 

to hide. i’ve seen the chrysanthemum

petals falling from the back pocket 

of your bleach-stained jeans, i’ve

kissed the gerberas rotting between

your crooked bottom teeth. 

tell me, darling,

what’s her spare apartment key doing planted

in your sternum? 

grab the gardening shovel from the shed. there are 

three graves we have to dig. 

the names of other girls bloom 

like marigolds in your mouth – 

i pray you choke on the petals. 

don’t ask how i got like this. selfishness 

was your mother tongue, not mine;

i only learned it in translation 

from your old gardening books.

why don’t you understand? i spend 

all my nights 

wishing i were her &

all my days 

wrapped around my mother’s loom, 

my knotted limbs & frayed 

heartstrings begging to finally become 

something beautiful enough for you. 

stop looking at me like that.

i will not pluck the daisies from her lungs

i will not love either of you.