She steps onto the edge and finds light corners of earth.
Here, the sun's rays are kind and do not burn her back.
they mend her sorrow
they fill the cracks in her heart and stop her from feeling so hollow.
In an attempt to snap back into -
She brushes knuckles against pocket -
to see if it's really over -
There is no ringing dullness?
Just a quiet head with a pulsating buzz
that numbs her softly
that sings her sweet hymns of stillness.
and it is in this stillness her body becomes the stem and her head - a diadem of petals.
She is uprooted from the earth
by a boy
a boy sitting by a babbling brook
casting her petals at his feet - the altar
she loves me so
or does she not?
but does he not see her barren stem void of petals and how he plucked 127 of them
to soften the ground on which the alter rests.
Grow little flower, grow on.
Spread your seeds
and grow up from under his feet.
Realize there is more for you to be.
More to be than to cheer his slum
or feel so dumb
to give literally everything
all you had
until there was nothing left.
He was a barren river bank
envious of the babbling brook.
But she was sustained by a streaming river,
a selfless giver, ~a reminder that boys who sit by babbling brooks pluck petals and say, 𝘪 love her not. 𝘪 love her not.