Two years ago, we bought a hibiscus plant
and seated it on our doorstep
I long for the day before it got infected
when its petals were as plump as your lips
when you still hoped I had inherited
your green thumb—when you hadn’t yet realized
I dipped mine in paint
The sun hung low on the nascent May sky
its rays exposing our flower’s
proliferating pustules
Your lips were blistered—cracked, dry, and peeling
I let my teeth mangle mine
As you caressed them, the petals withered
onto the breeze
expressions of affection shriveling into a mess
of decay and despondence.
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