If I knew which flower was which-

I could tell the stories I’m afraid to tell,

With a petal here and a thorn there,

Roses thrown in for luck

(or looks,

if we’re being honest.)

The stories of me, hidden to protect the innocent,

(not-so-innocent)

from embarrassment and pain.

Marigolds would work,

Even though they are ugly.

Don’t they keep the weeds away?

They fly under the radar,

Even with rotten roots.

I don’t know anything about flowers.

I know I overshare.

I can feel it for days, weeks, years afterwards.

I have to pretend I never said what I said.

It’s a small town, after all.

I can’t stand people,

Most people, really.

You would never know

From looking at me.

Accommodating.

 I will smile and nod,

 I won’t disagree.

Who has the energy,

really?

I would write the stories without worrying

About the betrayal. My betrayal, 

Not theirs.

Out in the universe, for all to see.

A few to see.

Maybe it would feel good to throw someone under the bus,

Once in a while.

Better them than me, 

for a change.

Out in the world,

Truth told.

Black dahlias for the win.