Okay, since people seem to think that I actually post in this journal, I figure I might as well put up a more recent sample of my work for people to read, since Vendettas is EXTREMELY old and EXTREMELY crappy.
So, without further ado, here's one of my latest. This one is an epistle (so, written in letter form) and it is in need of critique.
Thank you for the hydrangeas.
I want you to know that they recently passed away
peacefully after smashing against the driveway.
They were standing in my light, and I was trying
to grow some sympathy, but finding
that my (normally) green thumb had rotted away
despite that sunny disposition of yours,
I opened the window.
Some days, you have to let the air in.
There's a chance I could have fallen
instead of your precious plant.
(Maybe I already have.)
I know your secrets; they are pressed
against my circulation, pulsing and blooming
where tissue meets vein (roots sinking
by blue rivers) turning red with nourishment.
You left carnations on my shoulder
that blushed an embarrassed shade of vermilion,
and your ivy is still crawling
(painfully) down my spine.
No matter what,
you will never deflower my skin
the way you deflowered my body.
You can never uproot me,
because despite how hard you dug into me,
it was never deeply enough.
I sent you roses once, exchanging
my last hand full of change to say
my love is unchanging;
Your girlfriend thought they were from your sister.
(Our language is lost on her.)
I'm sending a second bouquet, and this time,
know that these flowers are mine,
and they have been growing all along,
but it's time to let them go.
So long, Sweetpea.
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