Second Rot

Even the way you clutch the flowers -

Rigidly, holding them like a shovel,

Serves to fulfill our inevitable burial.

Letters hiding behind the molars,

Sizzling like acid on your tongue -

I can tell, you know.

There's no need to bust my eardrum,

No need to promise a better future.

Trembling rose petals fall on your shoes.

Our love was spoiled from within -

Ugly as it became, it bloomed once with vigor,

Disguising a rotten core.

One attends a funeral with eyes closed,

Pretending that shovels are roses,

Shedding petals on the creaking doorstep.

A memory, welcomed as a summer sunset,

Might just feel like rekindled love,

Rather than a second rot.

Author's Note

Picture by Pexels (2016) on Pixabay.