It’s already February.
Right now there are a dozen roses in my room. Each rose is the size of a tightly-balled fist—yellow-pink things taunting with their open, teasing faces and intoxicating breath.
I’ve been sitting on the bed for the past thirty minutes staring into these eyeless, soulless flowers. It’s only been two days, but they’re already in full bloom; the edges of their petals have already started to curl towards a second death.
These are flowers that have been tickled by noses and heard the embrace of lips.
They have died to be sold, to be given, to be received, to be displayed, shown, loved.
They live through death.
There are only a few things that live through death.
It was my roommate’s birthday two days ago, and she walked in with these roses in hand. As she clipped the ends of the stems, I couldn’t help but hear a trill of tiny screams.
