My name isn’t Karen darling.
The rose petals make a beautiful canvas 

of broken promises and sweet nothings you made to me. 

I am bent over cigarette ashes 

My high heels have rubbed into mosaic.
I look down the moonlit street.

The wind blows creating a secondhand made symphony. 

It is bittersweet music to my ears 

And as the wind picks up and the rain makes a soft

1,2,1,2,1,2,3.
I laugh hysterically because you promised me a dance in the rain,

But instead we ended up in Minneapolis traffic high. 

My throat burnt with the temporary happiness and nostalgia. 

Even now outside on the steps I felt that same familiar burning come back.
The thunder makes a deep yell across the 2:45 a.m. Mural of green and grey

I softly whisper back to it, “Fuck you Karen.” 

It picks up faster and faster 

The scattered rose petal promises blow away. 
The thunder crescendos to a mezzo forte 

And my desperation to be free intensifies.

Until finally I cut the strings holding my thought process 

In this weeping willow.

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