You gave me flowers, plucked
from a bed of rose
thorns.
You picked well – that time –
fresh, young, vulnerable.
Your princess
plied with missing
pieces – filled a
gap.
I was not loved,
not wanted,
until you.
You filled me with your
alcohol, cocaine. Injected
heroin
against my…
love… my four
letter word.
I tried to talk, to run,
couldn’t form the words, so
inappropriate –
this love,
amongst the gravestones.
Terrorised, tortured – I trusted
you. Inhuman –
soul departed – that day you plucked
wild
flowers, for young girls,
between the tombstones
of abuse.
©Carolyn Cornthwaite
Carolyn writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and has almost completed the first draft of a novel. She dreams of Booker prizes and a life in France and blogs at http://wimpywriter.com/
