Surgeon

you bought all these flowers, they smell amazing.

but I know this is how you intoxicate me every second week
when you come back from hotel rooms or business trips or whatever it is we're calling them now.

white daisy petals stained with the color of your lies,
stems crushed from rushing hands.

I get a vase,
snip a little here,
pull a little there.

every second week I become a surgeon, operating on wilting flowers damaged by careless hands.

hands that come home with a cold touch, all their warmth left on the inside of another woman's thighs.

but I save these flowers, because when you called me your sunflower I had no one to save me.