You loved me to the moon,
but then you got lost growth
when I met you, you were a garden of
bounty where nature reigns superior and, around
you, I could lose myself in the skies kissed golden
and trees intermingled with the stars above, I could
melt into a tornado of rose petals and stars
divine; I could sink into the throes of savage passion.
I painted the soft thumping of your pulse into
constellations, I whispered your name into
the roses in front my window, I smeared the woody
scent of your pheromones into aged parchment, I
carved your touch onto my skin in crimson rose
blossoms, I burned every last message you sent me
and kept the ashes in a golden chest on my
bedside; my darling, I was good to you.
You loved me like a rose, caressing my crimson petals between your fingers.
The day you untied your ribbon from around my
neck, you tasted like warm milk and lavender and
your voice was imperial blue. Your fingers were soft,
that day, when they gently loosened the silk and
pulled it free, and when the winter air prickled my
neck, I could feel my entire body start to quiver.
If I could, I would slice my dignity with the last
words you whispered into my hair and sacrifice my
blood to the moon for the chance to be reborn
from stardust; does the world grant the right
people at the wrong time second chances? I would
stab your white promises and broken eyes into
my throat and bleed the reasons why, without
you, I am nothing. I would drive my teeth into
my thighs and rip out every last inch that you touched
and use my skin to cover-up the recordings of your
laughter that was suddenly playing on a loop in my brain.
Perhaps you had forgotten that flowers need water, too.
What comes after
I think I spent way too much of my time
writing poetry that I’d never showed and writing
letters that I’d never sent and imagining what
the words “I love you” would sound like coming
out of your mouth. I’m tired of being jealous over
something that was never mine. Some people are
like clouds, the days are just brighter without
them. In the end, you tried, and you cared and,
sometimes, that’s enough.
I am not your rose and what we had been not love.
©️ Julia Vu
Julia Vu is a 16-year-old student from Bay Area, California. As a dreamer with imagination more overactive than most, she has always used writing as a way to temporarily escape from reality, to just delve deep into this alternate universe, and to bring the world that exists only in her imagination to life. A survivor of depression and eating disorders, she documents her cycles with decline, relapse, and recovery through her poetry. Julia hopes to empower others and embrace the beauty of her own mental illness by sharing the letters she never intended to send.