its life begins, already trapped
under too-bright lights and boxed-up walls.
it grows. it starts to yearn for
the magic of the world
and it inches towards the outside,
towards freedom,
but–
glass.
no escape.
disappointment is crushing, isn’t it?
if it could cry, it would.
it’s soon picked. they were impatient,
greedy hands reaching for its love
and velvet softness.
dressed up in unfamiliar wrapping,
crunch, crinkle
a death grip sucking its life out as it’s carried to the
outside world that it, once upon a time,
so desired to be a part of.
but it doesn’t have time to savor anything
as it is shoved back into a dark chamber,
suffocating ties—all it can feel, a small jolt
here and there.
voices materialize
it is shoved around again, into someone’s trembling hands
their tears spill onto it
soaking the crumpled wrapping it’s bound in
and it almost feels a bit sad for them.
but then it–
it wants to scream
as they pull it apart,
limb
by
limb,
ripped-up petals scattering the ground,
remnants of a miserable existence smeared on their hand
how can death be so painful?
where’s the numb sensation of relief? of bliss?
of cool, revitalizing darkness?
was this really how it was supposed to end?
alas, there’s nothing it can do as it gets killed.
and now, all you can think of is how,
as the white lily is dropped onto the floor,
a mutilated flower can still look so beautiful.