my flowers are dead
crushed and rotting in a jar
just taking up space
I knew I'd kill them,
picked them months ago with no
water yet to give
petal by petal
each wilt under the knowledge
that I'm their owner
the dry spray of breath
betrays my expectations
brittle and fallen
colors have faded
to an old & pale blood stain
marked with rejection
they know sometimes I
wish I'd never picked them, but
they're too parched to cry
oh, when will I learn
flowers only thrive when I
leave them in the earth