Flu Season

February fevers are right
around the hallmark corner,
slick with sweat that tastes
of wine and chocolate,
wrapped up in the velvet
noose of idealized worth.

We trim the necks of roses
to wait for them to decay
in an overpriced vase,
pull the stuffing from reality
and shove it into the belly
of a pink bear that murmurs,
‘hug me’, I’ll admit it’s clever,
turning green off our dreams,
but nothing that cheap can
last forever.

– B.

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