It’s a skull-shaped pot of wilted flowers on the porch waiting for the tide to rise, pick it up, and take it away to Dreamland, where it belongs.

You compared me to a"beautiful flower."

I don't think I'm beautiful.

Especially not like the pink flower you said I was.

I'd say I'm more like a notebook, 

there, but not noticed.

Chamomile tea on a winter's day is

Comforting as a warm hug

Soothing as ointment on chapped skin 

Steaming like the lazy trail of smoke from a chimney

Wonderful like a homemade thank you card 

Cold and dark like a blizzard in the night.

Deceiving and dangerous as if a snake with fangs like daggers.

Wild like the wind and agonizing like a fire with flames white as snow.

Gentle as water sliding down your face,

A voice like a bell.

A smile as delicate as a rose,

But as strong as an eagle.

Hands and arms with ink scribbled over them like tattoos.

Hair like a sunset.

As dry as sand, 

wrung out and shrunken from the cold,

loose and shivering like dead hemlock needles in a parched winter wind, 

puddling and sifting in the wake of footsteps.