The flowers in my house are dying.
They lay in heat waiting for the bees and the nourishment of
Black soil. But I have tricked them into little tousled vases
To go and sin no more.
Thick cut, shin split flowers. Little do they know they will be
Chucked in a garbage pail tomorrow. But for now they glow
In that lumbering soft-petal way flowers do.
And they smell fragrant, and they smell like rot, and it makes me
Want to drink whiskey and whisper to them in a silvery sweet sugar
Voice that things will be ok even if they're not.
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I adore your notes! Please don't be shy! :)