Marigolds

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Marigolds were my favorite flower, but now they're a metaphor for the short-lived—and that's exactly what we were. Within a week, the petals withered and blight consumed each stem. I wish I'd thrown us out with them. I didn't because I'm not a victim, not this time. You did nothing wrong—I guess that's why I never fell in love with you. I'm masochistic that way—I only love when it nearly kills me. You didn't try, but we died anyway. One could say that we were incompatible, but we really did spend the best time together. I guess we were just incommunicative, despite the fact that we communicated every day, but never in ways that mattered. 

You have this twisted idea of forever—that someone in this world owes you any satisfaction. You talk about commitment, but the only thing you're committed to is this notion that you're worth someone's life. You're not. The truth is, you'll never know the soul behind his lips. You don't even see him as an individual; you see him as a potential marital status. You're waiting for somebody willing to settle for you, to accept you—not for your insecurities—but for someone insecure. You want so badly to be married, but men really don't want to marry a wallet with a chiseled jaw and no personality—which is exactly what you are. You hide your infirmity behind your finances because you only look good sitting beside expensive cuisine and hotel bills. To the naked eye, I sound jealous. But to the naked eye that's seen you naked, I sound rational. 

You look like a marigold, one that wilts. The bouquet I threw away because it was transactional. You ruined marigolds for me, like I ruined your image of yourself more than your parents did. There is no love for you here; you're not composed enough for that. 


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