From Ache and Rosettes, a Yearbook Volume 2

We're never ready for the dull pain of the
day. By fifteen I'm haunted by calla lilies.
The sad wilt of them from the vase on my
nightstand. A boy's voice on the phone
 dripping with sex. The girl three counties
away who drank bleach til her throat
bloomed blue roses. My hair is in that
horrible in between stage, won't stay in its
clip. Little tendrils keep flying and adhering
to my glossed lips. That year the gnats came,
congesting the house with their tiny black
bodies. Choking all the white from the walls.
A strange sort of sadness constricts my
throat on Wednesdays. I still flinch at the
tiniest things. Car lights casting shadows of
iron fences on the windows. How you say
you love me because I can see the darkness
in everything. Land a cold kiss on my
forehead and button up my jeans. My
mother once filled a tin can with flowers and
it blossomed into clouds so tender and pink
my mouth ached. In class, we swear by
blood not to tell a soul. Count multiplication
tables on our sugared fingers. Read of
monsters by day, never knowing they're
right beneath our beds by night.