chest daisies

she tells me she doesn’t want to see me anymore
i feel flower buds in my fingertips
start so small and should be terminal
vine stems emerge from the pistils
bloom into my journal entry from two weeks ago:
she’s so beautiful inside and out inside and out
i can’t bother with punctuation
it traps us on my porch
shields us from God and His breath and the way we can’t see Him anymore
plants twist between my fingers
lover’s massage on a night home from a hard day’s work
her vines leave her hands alone
instead surround her eyes
organic spectacles while flowers bloom under my breasts
in the small of my back and i keep asking her questions
keep her talking, keep her talking

she tells me she doesn’t want to hurt me anymore
i’m floating and i’ve never really been here
she asks me if i believe
in God or beginnings while i think about the facts
she’s so scared of an end and so scared of a beyond
that she can’t even see me here
i know she’s scared because she doesn’t breathe when she needs to
her voice is robotic and she blooms flowers
between her teeth: red yellow every color she appears as in my dreams
she appears as a sun flare with a smile and a hand toward me
a few too many drinks on a wraparound porch
she’ll ask me where my accent is and she’ll ask if i need another after
she pours herself her last one
keep her drinking, keep her drinking

she tells me she should leave
i just want to make her laugh because i can feel her pain
radiating from her fingertip flowers struggling to bloom
as opposed to mine: sunflower-tall orchids
hers stop and start and smell of what is left of her
on my pillows and sheets before i wash them tonight
i will tumble-dry them high even though it says low
the wrinkles won’t come out stretched across my bed
keep her here, keep her here

she tells me i should write a story about this
i tell her i’ll write about her the rest of my life
i’m a carnivorous pitcher plant and she’s my
insect i’ll dissolve until she’s nothing except what i need
she pulls into reverse and our stems break
crisp and jagged and wet and a 7am summer morning
i think of her bedhead as a mess of weeds on a mini-me
a green love that surrounds us on a lakefront alone
she’s so very right but i still remember her eyes on mine
she said she’d get married if that’s what my chest daisies wanted
keep her, keep her

Meaghan Loraas is a writer and a native Alabamian finishing her undergraduate degree in Idaho after a decade of dropping out, dropping in, moving across the country, and changing majors. Her work has previously been published in firstwriter.magazine and she’s working on a short story collection as well as a novel.

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