I'm five years old, I have a crush.
I pick a flower and give it to him.
'You're a killer, ' he says coldly.
I look down at the flower,
Once so very beautiful.
I know he's right, I'm a killer.
I plucked an innocent being
Disconnected it from its life it had.
This flower, now limp and rotting
In my hand.
It got me thinking,
How life can be so delicate
Like this tiny flower, wilted already.
I was a killer, and I cried
For the flower, and for its life
That it used to have, until
I plucked it out of existence.
At five years old, I learned a lesson.
And now I tell you:
Don't give flowers to boys.
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Comments about this poem (Killer by Cheryl Cheng )
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