I drank a glass of water today. It sat hard without movement, and was heavier in my stomach than usual. Along with the molecules of hydrogen and oxygen, fused together as they always have been, I accidentally swallowed some of myself, and gave myself up to the insects who will break my body down and fertilize the wet black soil. Hopefully the resulting flowers aren’t too heavy.
I’ll take my secret flowers and push them up, past the lost memories, past the night writing, past my every broken vase and thrown-up dust ball and into the back of my closet, where the sunlight can’t get and it still smells like the difference between the effects of certain detergents on mold.
I hope they smell good. I hope they die fast.
I was never cut out to be florist.
