My lies etch into your heart, and I wish you never believed in mine. The lilies in mom’s garden morph scarlet. Fingers sprout in place of pedals
to writhe. Coach passes down a weathered blue belt.

What kid deserves to don dead cloth chanting goodbye? Monroe witnesses my name manifest in ways mundane. Stars shift with Sirius to spell it.

Was I that iconic? Why must we all breathe even when drowning
in boney soil?

Why must this town topple and toil
as if it has lost? Exhale. I am now a sunflower, malignant roots ever obscured from view.

Set to decay in an overgrown alleyway, I will never be able
to again hurt you.

Poetry by Harlee Harris

Image by Adam Strong

Harlee Harris is a writer and soon-to-be English graduate out of Northern Louisiana

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