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Bitter violets rest in their purple sulking,
false blooms hoodwinking fools their pressed petals
will canonize lost lovers as priests of the heart.
Dead bookmarks lie in my journals in crumbled
graveyards of inane longing…a fool’s garden planted
amongst the inked witness to my instability.
How does one become blind to devils yet dissect
the most tender by listing flaws as if beauty of the flesh
was the gold standard by which to judge a soul.
Were I a sin eater I would be fat on my own misjudgments.
Nonsense argues a kiss can turn a toad into a prince…
What dignity is there in bargaining with fairytales?
I am an assassin, a rusted knife cutting spirits
into black valentines because I cannot bend
the strong into my weakness.
Romance, I hunger more for the idea than the truth
a candle only gives light when there is a flame.
Fantasy has no power to reincarnate reality from ashes.
©Susie Clevenger 2022
This poem was inspired by Shay's word list and the occassional junk food novels I consume.
