Love Potion

You condense the sweetest honey.
You then mix it with the fairest daisies which you've painstakingly picked day and night through bushes of poppies which withstood the rubble and tempest— the very witnesses of all your failed romances, broken friendships, and regrets.

Did you really have to draw out the tears from your wet pillow last night?

You used it to decoct your yellow pansies, and from dusk till dawn you are awestruck. You thorn-scraped beholder! You pick the flowers through spikes and glass shards, then you glaze it with extracts of hyacinths and still marvel by the beauty before you. But you're hurt, you just don't know it, or you've grown through all of it.

It tasted sweet to you, yet you can never hide the bitterness which lingered from all the what-ifs you cried for last night. You gave it all to me with your wounded and numbed hands, no wonder why you never felt my fear and pain and grief and strife—the morphine has worked their way deep within you, and you've been in pain far too long than you can imagine. You only knew it when I started drifting away from you, and you blamed me for it.

But, you see, white lilies cannot come with snapdragons. Because how can purity go well with deception?

You're still stuck in the willows, and you are not willing to be helped. I waited till I begged you with white roses and cornflowers, but all you sent me were yellow marquerites and red carnations.

I wished you never sent me any of those flowers, because none of them spoke the truth about you— or if anything is actually true, I'm afraid I won't know the difference between them, and your lies, skeletons in the closet, and dirty little secrets you tell your pillow every night.