This poem is for
You
You who spoke in words that
sprouted flowers of hope

And I picked each one

Like a disrespectful little girl
walking through the gardens of her
various neighbors on the way
home from school

And I inhaled that sent perfumes
only dream of producing

You didn’t stop
So neither did I

And then you did.

This poem is for
You
You who I thought would never be
a poem

But you are now
For even flowers of hope
wilt

This poem is for
You
You who taught me more than 13 
years of public schooling
You who was no different
You who left

I hate you
I do.
I hate that you convinced me to
listen
Convinced me to
grow
I hate that I have to avoid my
voicemail box
And that you can’t respond
I hate you

I don’t.