Love Me Not

Bones are the constant beat.

But, breaking
entangled in roots
they curl,
crunch.

Spinning a slow spiral up my spine.

Snap.

I am sprouting sorrel,
blooming just below my collarbone.

Remind me not to pick at petals,
“Does he love me?
Love me not?
Love me?
Love me not?”

My bones are the constant beat
and they will grow their own garden,
not wait for someone to bring me flowers.

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