She whispers into flowers only

When she wants them to know

What they look like.


She whispers into flowers

Telling them that they are indigo & violet

& ruby & maroon & gold & amber.

They don’t know that there are names

Until she tells them.


Until she tells them.


Until she tells them

Their names and colors it means nothing.

They don't know roses are red—

Violets are blue

They are confused why a violet is blue and not violet—

Marigolds are marigold.


Until she opens their petals

And nuzzles her face between their velvety lips,

They don't know that they are sweet.

They want to know which of them is sweeter.


They want to know which

Of them feels better in her hands.

Does she prefer them in full bloom so that pollen

Might stick to her skin or does she

Prefer that they stab her with thorns when she reaches

To hold them against her?


They want to know how it feels

To be cupped in her hand

Uprooted from the earth gently so

Their petals are only ruffled.


They want to know her.

She Took Her Life Last Night


It was early in the morning

Her pink lips trembled,

On a white face

Smelling of saline and coffee.


It was cold, the air

Between us

She whimpered into her scarf,

Slowly strangling her neck.



Margarita Cruz

Margarita Cruz is currently a Senior at Northern Arizona University studying English and Secondary Education with certificates in Creative Writing and Literature and minoring in French. She's a little eccentric and obsessed with coincidence. A literary activist, you can find her around Flagstaff at various literary events and writing on her blog, The Write Life. She plans to pursue an MFA in Creative Writing. This is her first publication.
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