White flowers in a black glass vase.
No scent in the room.
Pretty things can keep their shape
and still go bad too soon.

You never raise your voice, that’s the worst part.
You let silence walk in with a pressed shirt.
Cold wrist, clean watch, door held wide,
smile so still it could pass for kind.
Everybody calls it grace from a distance,
says you got patience, says you got discipline.
But I seen your eyes when the weak hand shakes,
seen your mouth go soft when the floorboards break.
You don’t strike.
You just stay.
Let the room learn fear in a well-lit way.
Keep your anger folded under linen,
keep your teeth white, keep the knife hidden.
I used to think mercy had a gentle face,
till I watched you spare me just to own the space.
Now the flowers lean when you enter the room,
all that beauty with a basement bloom.

Lilies that rot
still look clean.
Sweet on the table,
sick underneath.
Hold your hands up.
Say you did not.
Some weeds smell better
than lilies that rot.

You got power like a locked glass case,
bright little weapon nobody can trace.
People bring secrets to your quiet side,
you weigh them once, then let them dry.
You don’t ruin names with a shouted thing,
you just leave one word where the rumor drinks.
One pause at dinner.
One turned cheek.
One soft “interesting” and nobody sleeps.
I know your type from the polished halls,
where the art stays straight while the empire falls.
You make restraint look holy and high,
but a saint with no warmth is just stone with eyes.
If you ever loved me, you kept it sealed,
pressed like a flower till the color peeled.
I’d rather take thorns that admit what they are
than petals that perfume the dark.

Lilies that rot
still look clean.
Sweet on the table,
sick underneath.
Hold your hands up.
Say you did not.
Some weeds smell better
than lilies that rot.

No blood on the cuff.
No crack in the plate.
No witness can name
what changed in your face.
But the room knows.
The stem bows.
The water turns slow.
Something pale goes sour
where the light can’t go.

Lilies that rot
still look clean.
Sweet on the table,
sick underneath.
Hold your hands up.
Say you did not.
Some weeds smell better
than lilies that rot.

Leave them there.
Let them shine.
White heads bent
over blackened wine.