Rotting flowers can still smell sweet...

Just like your memory, it's a beautiful lie.

The fragrance of promise before things had to die.

You left me a bouquet of perfectly poised

Half-truths and soft whispers, neatly disguised.

They sit on the counter, the color still bright,

A stunning arrangement beneath the kitchen light.

But look closer, darling—the petals are thin,

There's a fungus, a mold, where the rot has set in.

That sickening perfume, it clings to the air,

The ghost of the goodness that simply wasn't there.

It's the scent of a fraud, a delicious parade,

The way you were charming right up to the fade.

And I stood here and sniffed, thinking, This must be real,

Mistaking the sweetness for how I should feel.

But now I'm smart enough to open the door,

And toss out the garbage that's only good for

The compost bin, honey, where true lessons grow.

You were a beautiful scent, but a terrible show.

I'm not fooled by the sugar covering the spoil.

I'll trade your fake roses for some good, honest soil.