on a future thursday,
a man will approach this very doorstep
with red roses, norcos, and champagne.
he asks,
“how is my baby girl?”
the air ripped between us for a pause,
my dry tongue finally pressing words through my lips,
“how is a bat in the light?”
your blood-red roses of desire
dont mean shit to me anymore,
they are whimpering and cracking,
dry from all your tears you let crawl away for me.
they cry for the impure murky water
running from my tap.
your baby girl is all they want now,
for you have abused them.
these roses plead weakly,
but the whimpers and cries go unheard
by my impaired ears,
finding themselves fading into the ring of silence.