seven twenty-eight am.

the time on a thursday morning when you decided to throw a pink rose on to my doorstep.

i watched as you looked around the empty roads and threw it; hopping back on your bike and petaling fast enough so no one noticed.

don't worry, no one saw you stop by the freak's house.

my mother found it before i could get it myself. a note reading, "sorry" in messy handwriting was tied to the stem.

she turned around, the rose tucked into her chest as she smiled down at me,

"i told you he would change," she cheered, pushing past me, "i told you he would keep his promise,"

my father came home that night, beating my mother till her face was red.