GRIEF Poem: Dried White Rose, by Pippin Larson

Each privilege granted
To those who deserve
To experience such rewards;
To those who are good
And those who are holy

But for me,
Whom I assumed to be good
And holy in my own way,
In my own eyes–
I am given a white rose

I never understood
Why he had handed me such a gift
It made no sense
For a man late to his meeting
To assign me a flower

Who are you,
Accepting the bare bones
Only adorned
With small specks of remaining meat,
To give good people flowers?

How have you nourished
Such beauty?
Jupiter’s water?
Or the treasured liquid of misery
That you have chosen to rule?

You are a liar!
There was no good within this rose
Only disease-ridden pollen
And a blackened
Abyss

I challenge your existence
I refuse your beliefs
I deny the person you are
Hidden under your skin
I pluck your petals

I hate you
I despise you
Everything you stand for
You are worthless to me
I pluck your petals

I suppose that if I lie to myself
And offer you the thoroughly damaged flower
With the chewed stem
Will you accept it once more?
I pluck your petals

My tears flood my lungs
I am strangled
I am drowning
Do your job, damn you!
I pluck your petals

I hate you
I love you
You break me
I hate me
I accept you

There is no more.
Nothing but a stem remains
With teeth marks
In the soft, fuzzy, green flesh
Your petals strewn across the floor

Life is the thin screen
I am outdoors in the sunlight
I forgot the sun had existed
And I forgot that air could be crisp and clean
Your petals dry upon the floor

You are beautiful
I feel you around me
Your dried petals laced along my skin
White upon white they vanish
Becoming scars and scabs

I drown within you,
Your beauty,
Your misery,

Grief.