THE FRESH PICKED FLOWERS

by Jasmine Williams

 

I walk around a house and see the flowers you picked for me.

I sit in front of the flowers and notice the smell of the pie that you baked for me.

I go to my room and see the dress you have chosen for me.

I go to my bathroom and see the lipstick you have set out for me.

In the tub I see a fresh razor and soap.

Just for me.

The house is on fire.

The flowers are burning.

The pie is black.

The dress is ashes.

The lipstick, melted.

And all the little things you have chosen for me.

Gone.

I watch it burn without emotion.

I sit on the bed and feel the flames on my legs.

Take me. Take me. Take me please.

I lay back as the house burns.

You could have never chosen this for me.

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