she was a wildflower,

her petals bent into uneven halves

when you forgot for a second

how to treat her right,

how to be careful because anger leads to terrible things,

and dug fingers into palm

while revisiting some pain

that she didn't know about.

like a flower

she didn't ask

but took the pain

and though she bruised

she trusted you a second time.

her stalk

you held onto

when you were trying to be a careful, patient man

as your father had taught you to,

and didn’t want to hurt her.

her scent

you filled your empty skin with

and wore like a winter coat,

hoping it hid the smell

of other women

in the grit beneath your fingernails

and in the grooves of your back

and in your unwashed hair.

her colour

you lay in bed with

and held hands with,

letting it rub onto your skin

until you, too,

were coloured with wonderful things like warmth and welcoming

and some joyous, half-hidden withering.

like a flower,

she didn't last long

and you knew better than to wish 

upon a wildflower

but you did anyway.

from the boundless fields

and from under the sun

you picked her

and, promising some better place,

put her right into 

the corner of

your flower shop.

she was a wildflower.