This is Not Love

Going away from here. So far the petals do not know me. So desperate, I pinch the stem, I tear the petal. I ripped the root.

Like people whose mirrors tinted blue do not reflect themselves.

Where water gallops against huge, fragile walls. And little cracks kill cities.

The use of exaggeration to undermine oneself, whatever this means to you.

Sticky soles. Peeling. Floors who ache to be walked upon. To never be left.