I usually don’t do flowers or feelings. I’d say that I fuck and run, but one-night stands always leave me empty, staring up at a strange ceiling, turning over on a strange mattress, watching the sunlight play with shadows against the wall as if I don’t want to run for my life.
I’m good at drunken confessions and stilted morning-after poetry; I’m good at putting up walls and pretending my poems scratch the surface; I’m good at saying, “Fuck her,” and I’m good at saying, “I fucked her.”
I guess I could do cut carnations and red roses– unless you’re allergic to stupid displays of moderate affection, in which case just dump out the water. They’ll be fine.
I swore I’d never write for you long after I wrote for you, and I swore I’d never like you but then You Couldn’t Breathe but then We Couldn't Breathe and your pants were loud, and you’re not my type, but last May I proved that I’m shit at boundaries and last May I proved that I can be weak and last May you proved you do something to me.
In London, I didn’t tell you that I liked a girl named Anna with heart-shaped lips and loose brown curls. In London, I didn’t tell you that Temptation removed her red dress the same time that Ferguson burned the same time that English protestors stampeded the same time I realized that I couldn’t do feelings with her, either.
Anyway, I hope you don’t mind cut carnations and bad decisions, and I hope you don’t mind this bad poetry scribbled in the margins of my exam. And if you don’t like the flowers, just dump out the water, they’ll be fine. And if you don’t like the flowers, let’s pretend my stupid friends made me do it, and we’ll be fine.