By Ashton Darracott
The roses are stale
Sour as the breath you wasted
on your ‘gift’
I wish I’d thought twice
before you reached out
to comfort me
My tongue is so heavy
and I think in carats
but I have no use for metal
that tarnishes from greed
Don’t hold me too tight, papa
Or you’ll have to polish me after
and Gods! please don’t look at me
like that
You’re the one with fingers that sing of riches
and a heart that must weigh
a hundred tonnes
This existence is hideously heavy, yes
But I never expected
that I might think my shackles
royal, even for a split second
You had to ruin it, you did
The garden I planted, pruned, loved,
in my leisure
You touched, tainted
took for your pleasure
When will you learn
to love with your heart
Or your eyes
Something aside
from your coveting hands
Papa, sing to me
I’m sorry; I’m angry
and it’s lonely in here
It’s too much to think
about not getting older
not getting married
not getting to smell
another flower
again
It makes my heart sink
further than the sweet, rotten sediment
at the bottom of the Pactolus River
What will be next, then?
Am I the new feature display?
Or will you cast me aside
just like the food you cannot enjoy?
I see you’re starving, but
I quite liked being alive
So, if you wouldn’t mind
Perhaps find a way
to replace my stone with bone
and this hellish cold
with flesh
capable
of growing old
These are simple things for a girl to ask
And one last thing! Please
don’t forget to fix the roses!
