(Camellias)

[madscenes]

The camellias change colour in time with the seasons,
Over summer they are white, blank spaces to fill
With gaiety and hope for long, sun-kissed evenings,
June bearing bright lipstick marks,
Whereas in winter they will turn red from bloodletting,
And the heart spills all its secrets
To the night terrors endured in the lonesome
January.

Something tears through the cavity of my chest
Behind my ribcage where my lungs were located,
And it shreds the hollownesses into long strings.
I wonder whether the flowers could be pulled onto them,
Whether I could make camellia necklaces for myself.
You should also carry the weight of petals
Along with the weight of
What consumes me.

Everybody else is clad in blues and lace,
They want the ballrooms and the countryside,
But I move through the haze of them,
Their uneasy motion blur,
Rustling gowns and ankle-high grasses, lots of greenery,
Carrying my tiny symbol of self-possession
Between my fingers, I give it to you.
Everything; I give it to you.

What are we if not pale white and blood red
Camellias stuck to our mortal frames?
The promises of these flowers have filled me
With the complexities of a full year, summer
And winter, too.