my fingertips wept as i stole
the flowers from your front porch
and they began to stain
the petals, the stems, the organs.
i wrung my hands and clawed my hair
in unfeigned frustration
but the moisture only inspired limp curls
i walked home, dripping
leaving a trail of rouge with each shallow step
the tears, they had drenched everything
but stopped short short of my consciousness
it was only later when i realized
that the flowers on your front porch
were actually roses.
to me, they just looked like
common peonies.
you see, my vision
(on nights such as these)
is as bloodied as my mind