She says, “I’d say my heart is in its grave
but I know there is no one who will come
to leave flowers in my ribcage.”
You say nothing while you think of daffodils
and can’t understand why she doesn’t believe
You try to tell her that fire purifies,
that forests grow stronger after the blaze,
that the Phoenix is born from its own ashes.
She tells you that she has bathed in gasoline
often enough to know better.
You say nothing while you think about
daffodils in ribcages and can’t understand
why planting flowers in fuel-soaked ashes
is not akin to rebirth.