White Roses

the wild, mad woman who laughed in the dead of night the one who always had paper to jot things down a poor memory yet full of recollections the one who spent so many words trying to explain the one with few plans but a thousand ideas the one who always spoke of life and feared not death yet could never shake the emptiness within the one who always had a reason to scream the one who cultivated fennel and burdock who believed in salves and faith healers who loved a party, sex, and a bonfire if there are roses, let them be like the leaves if you can still remember me if one day you remember me if someday you wish to remember me so many blank sheets I wasted white roses, white roses white as my soul—if I even had one please, my final request is that you forget if you can still forget me if one day you forget me if someday you wish to forget me