"The flowers are dying, the ones up on the windowsill"
The first thing she had said to me in hours
She broke the silence
"What?"
"The flowers are dying, look they're wilting"
They were dying
The windowsill was littered with dry leaves and petals
They were straining for life
Just like us
The room fell silent again
The tension in the air was like a thick fog
"Are we okay?"
"I don't know, are we?" I stuttered
My lungs hurt from our screaming match
I don't know how it started
One conversation lead to so much anger
Anger that we took out on each other
"I'm sorry... I don't know what to say"
"You don't have to say anything"
I spoke in a harsh tone, still tense from before
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that"
"I can tell I hurt you"
She reached her hand out and grabbed mine
The right thing to say is "I love you"
But I just couldn't swallow my pride
I pulled my hand away and look back towards the window
There was no hope for those flowers
And maybe there's no hope for use
YOU ARE READING
gas station flowers
Poetrycoming of age poetry by a queer young adult writer. navigating relationships and the coming out process. peak inside the mind of a young woman with a mental illness.
