Second Rot

Even the way you clutch the flowers -

Rigidly, holding them like a shovel,

Serves to fulfill our inevitable burial.

The letters hidden behind your molars,

Sizzling like acid on your tongue -

I can tell, you know.

There's no need to perforate my eardrum,

No need to promise a better future

As trembling rose petals fall on your shoes.

Our love was spoiled from within -

Ugly as it became, it bloomed once, and with vigor,

Disguising the rotten core.

One might attend a funeral with eyes closed,

Pretend that shovels are crimson roses,

Shedding petals on my doorstep.

And a memory, welcomed as a summer sunset,

Might just feel like rekindled love,

Instead of a second rot.

Author's Note

Picture by Pexels (2016) on Pixabay.