I think you were always waiting for me to slow down. I was hyper, scattered, excitable, and everything was always in colour with me but you dreamt in beige and ivory. I was an unlit firework; gasoline just waiting for that spark to ignite. The quiet pause before the chaos. I learned early on that men do not want to love hurricane women. A storm is exciting for a night but it can tear down houses and people. A storm is a force and god help you if a hurricane woman will love you because it will be fierce and it will never be easy. I never blamed you for leaving though I threw witches curses and did not let you go quietly. I saw you two years later with a calm girl. A raindrop girl, delicate and iridescent; non-threatening. She was a gentle Sunday afternoon and you had made a home there. I saw how you were comfortable now. Your eyes met mine, but you turned away from me, quickly. Was I still too bright? Beauty festers in mad women and if you touched me it would blister your skin. The fire women with tempest thunder hearts and men like you with perfectly matched socks and American dreams. Behind your white picket fence, I hope you remember those wild sunsets you spent with me.
I bought myself flowers through sadness
Or sadness through flowers, I could not tell
but with the hope that their blooms would lift lift lift me up away from the dirt the rot the human disappointment.
I often dream of those spring walks with you when I would pluck flowers from the ground, sprinkling earth from its roots, velvet petals against my nose, my cheeks,
but my nails would dig into their stems, your flesh, as I clung to you both,
Always there with a smile and a no.