Fiction for Prompt: Poppy
I want to believe in poppies, those bright, red flowers dancing in the field. They look so free and happy, ruffling in the wind. I want to believe in shining colors, that I could look like that in my red dress, that they herald love in bursting, scarlet kisses. I wanted to believe. A flower may fade but it's pretty for at least a day or two. I thought it was enough. I lied.
I believe in poppies, red drops of blood across the field. I believe the dances are short, that red is a signal to all that if they chop at your heart, the stain won't show. If the stain blends in, they can lie that it doesn't matter, than you never let them know it hurt so how are they to blame.
I believe in poppies. I believe that look lovely near tombstones. I believe in the beauty of death, of endings and neat little dates bracketing a life that won't hurt anyone anymore.
But poppies wait too long, they dance too quickly, they continue to lie. So many years to watch and remember, remember the dances, the blood, to remember how long it was since I believed in poppies, since I saw them as kisses.
Too many years, remembering what we were instead of who I thought we'd be.
I can't lie and say you'll lay them on my grave. So please, whoever finds this note, know I want to be ashes, ashes in the poppy field when I die for that's where my heart lived after all. Let me blow among the petals and blend with my memories.
No rest for the guilty, I can tell. For now, I still bleed poppy red, every drop of me longing to dance with you again.
I believe in poppies, red drops of blood across the field. I believe the dances are short, that red is a signal to all that if they chop at your heart, the stain won't show. If the stain blends in, they can lie that it doesn't matter, than you never let them know it hurt so how are they to blame.
I believe in poppies. I believe that look lovely near tombstones. I believe in the beauty of death, of endings and neat little dates bracketing a life that won't hurt anyone anymore.
But poppies wait too long, they dance too quickly, they continue to lie. So many years to watch and remember, remember the dances, the blood, to remember how long it was since I believed in poppies, since I saw them as kisses.
Too many years, remembering what we were instead of who I thought we'd be.
I can't lie and say you'll lay them on my grave. So please, whoever finds this note, know I want to be ashes, ashes in the poppy field when I die for that's where my heart lived after all. Let me blow among the petals and blend with my memories.
No rest for the guilty, I can tell. For now, I still bleed poppy red, every drop of me longing to dance with you again.