It’s not sorry

Pea Soup Anderson's

It’s not a rose wrapped in some poor deceased ferret’s pouffy coat, shivering from cold and bleeding red petals onto the merciless snow that rests in shards on the unbroken ground in winter.

It’s not shearings of black cloud crippled in the sky, following me like a cliché cartoon where the sun shines down on everyone but the blue-black girl with the eyebrows like a broken spider.

If you’d like to know, it’s the atmosphere’s menstrual rain grating perpetually down my skin, inside my iron bones, and through my pillowy veins. It’s the lowest note on an alto sax being played flat for eternity on an empty street; it’s a toilet flushing down my throat every time I try to speak, it’s infinite gray and gray. No roses in the gray, no broken skin, no broken hearts. Just a gray heart, in a gray trash can in a gray well.

It is not what I want for you.

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