flowers

People don't care about flowers, they just like to believe they do. If it's a pretty one it gets plucked, put in a vase, watered every day, then every week. Eventually the watering stops. The flower starts to wilt and the petals start to drop. They fall to the floor silently, with grace. The flower lost its vibrancy, so it gets thrown out and replaced by a new flower. One that's fresh and colourful and full of life. 

The imperfect flowers don't get plucked, they get stepped on. People waltz right over them without sparing them a second glance. The angry ones get dethorned, their claws ripped out, so people can hold them without getting pricked. 

I've looked in the mirror before, and wondered what kind of flower I would be. But I came to the conclusion that it wouldn't matter if i was a calla lily or a chrysanthemum. I was a teenage girl, so I'd get picked by a boy and thrown out after he grew bored of me. After he ripped of my petals one by one, like a game, and snapped my stem in half. It would only take two fingers to destroy me. Flowers are delicate after all. 

Maybe he'd take a different approach. Deprive me of sunlight or "forget" to water me. Less violent, but equally, if not more, cruel. Or maybe he'd water me too much. At first it would feel good, but then I'd drown. Less cruel, but so much more violent. 

Love kills. It's slow and torturous. Like trying to stop a flesh wound from bleeding by shoving sweet words and roses into it. The blood pools around you and seeps into the ground. And when your body gets found, they comb your hair and paint your lips. Because even in death, flowers hold a haunted kind of beauty. 

Then they bury you in cold, dark soil. And on top of you, a new flower grows. Only for them to kill it the first chance they get. They always do.