effeuiller la marguerite

a white petal

feels a firm tug:

they love me.

eight-month-old smiles

have parted lips and a pink, lolling tongue

that taste the laughter as it rushes by

and the milky giggles as they bubble up

from the slightest tickle of

a rounded belly.

they love me not.

eighteen-year-old smiles

are a cool facade,

slicked in red lipstick

and held together by cheap superglue

that I keep in the back pocket

of my favorite ripped jeans.

they love me.

our rosy cheeks and breathless grins

are forever immortalized

in the palm-sized Polaroids

(the date penned seven months ago)

on my bedroom wall,

to remind me that good times

do exist.

they love me not.

the invitation never reached my hands,

but it’s okay,

I love spending time by myself

anyways

snuggled under a blanket

that protects me from

you and everyone else.

they love me.

happy birthday!

I feel special as I open another gift

and beam at the store-bought,

material item you knew I wanted

so very badly.

they love me not.

every now and then,

we have a verbal disagreement—

I was being too passive-aggressive,

you were tired after a hard shift—

but it’s resolved with

a long talk, a box of tissues,

and many hugs

because anger is transient

and family is for life.

they love me.

today is a good day,

it’s pouring rain outside

but we are going out to brunch

and I look forward to

nonsensical conversation,

a hot cup of spearmint tea,

and a delicious meal—

eggs sunny-side up, of course.

even though my stomach

can only tolerate baby-sized bites,

I’m really glad I’m

with you.

they love me not.

irritation is boiling

under my skin

and no, you did nothing wrong

you did nothing at all

and that’s why

I’m mad,

so please leave me alone to

scratch at my itches

(but please don’t leave me alone).

they love me not.

sometimes I feel like

I’m trapped behind

a glass wall,

screaming and bleeding

from my everyday battles,

only it’s a one-way mirror

that conceals the blood

and mutes the noise.

in actuality,

nothing is wrong

(physically)

but when my eyes open

after a long night of sleep

and sunlight squeezes through the blinds,

the nightmare begins.

they love me not.

yesterday I saw many things.

a young woman stepped out of her car

and offered to help an old man

carry home his groceries,

the news reported the fourth

homicide of the week,

and the tree outside my front window

lost its last golden leaf.

everything around me is cycling,

and yet my world remains

very still.

I think the last time it moved,

the genuine smile of an

innocent child

morphed into a forged signature

because her heart forgot how to breathe.

have you ever wondered,

if a mind shatters

in beautiful agony

and no one is around to hear it,

does it make a sound?

it’s actually quite loud

and I can tell you,

it sounds a lot like

they love me not.