The Girl with the Dead Flowers in Her Room

by Stephen J. Golds

I should have made her hate me.

When it was at the end of its course

and it reached that redundant kind of finality.


She told me she had never hated anyone.

Could never hate me.

I was too special to despise.


But hate is the tossed coin of love and

would have been preferable to the

vacuous white silence of space and time


and this love now that I wish was hate

hanging loose like a button on

a dirty stained shirt I am forced to wear.



Stephen J. Golds believes all the coolest people die and go to Limbo.





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