My Flower Persona
I am useless
like a flower.
born to grow and die
only so that someone
can eye me like a prized possession.
I have no purpose
other than to look pretty
with my dainty petals
softly folding in
one another
in an endless maze of wonder.
I’ve been admired
and grazed,
it should make me happy,
to feel wanted,
but it makes me feel disgusted
that someone would only love me for my body.
I don’t want to just be beautiful.
(I don’t want to be weak)
I want to grow in the light
for the sake of growing,
I want to live
for the sake of living,
I want my colour to drain
for the sake of dying.
I don’t want to grow, live, and die
for someone else’s enjoyment.
I will not be used
like a flower
so stop staring at me
like I can be.
(I may be beautiful, but there is so much more to me than my flower persona).
Death
How long had He walked the Earth?
Aeons? He didn't know anymore.
Nature never minded His presence. After all, He was part of the Circle of Life. Mankind, however, detested him. They tried everything to evade him, to no avail. Some called Him an Angel, some called Him the Grim Reaper.
How foolish to think that a being like Him would bear any semblance to man.
He wasn't the darkness mankind portrayed him to be, neither was he the bright light the dying claimed to see. He was incorporeal.
He mourned for every being he took from and bore the burden of guilt and sorrow.
He was the first being to walk the earth, and the last.
Now, He lay at the base of the Tree of Life and took his time to appreciate the tranquillity and beauty of the moment.
He admired the majestic stars that dotted the night sky, the pearlescent moon that now seemed so close and savoured the feeling of the soft, damp earth around him for the last time. He bid the celestial bodies goodbye and slept.
His life of loneliness, grief and yearning had come to an end. He was finally released from his grievous task.
A Sound Like Rain
She had spent all day making the preparations. This was no small occasion. Would four bags of ice be enough, she wondered? Should she have gotten five? No, four would be plenty. She was not going back out to get more. The sun would be setting soon. It was almost time. She lit the candles. First, the large lavender one, then, the tea lights. Four bags of ice would be enough.
She loved the subtle smell of lavender. It calmed her in uncomfortable situations. This was not uncomfortable. She stared at the purple, painted mirror. Purple made her feel at ease. The faint smell of lavender seeped into her nose. She inhaled its subtle sweetness.
The bottle of Beaujolais she opened to let breathe sat on the counter, a glass next to it. She poured. Not a drop spilled. She held the glass to her nose and let the aroma blend with the lavender and drank.
She loved wine, especially French wine; she loved anything French. She had never been to France but dreamed of it. Often she would imagine sitting at a little table in a Parisian café, watching the passersby speaking that beautiful, poetic language. She knew some. She taught herself what she could. She feared that if she went the dream would slip away; the idea of it replaced by a fading memory.
Next to the bottle of wine sat The Sun Also Rises. It was one of her favorites. It comforted her like an old friend. The cover torn off and the pages bent. She had read it so many times in waiting rooms. Thoughts of matadors and Spanish countryside made her happy. She imagined Spain the same way she imagined France, a pristine reverie not to be muddled by memory.
The sun began to set, and as its light faded, the soft glow of the candles grew brighter. The lavender, more accentuated. The wax melting. The ice still cold. She poured more wine. This time several drops spilled onto the coverless book. The burgundy droplets were absorbed by the weathered page. It looked beautiful to her. A soft smile grew on her face as she caressed the new stains on the old book. She tried to see the beauty in almost everything.
Something was missing. She had to decide. She bit her lower lip and paused. Her lip slipped from between her teeth into a semi-smile as she heard Le Fille Aux Cheveux de Lin began to play. She set it to repeat, turned to close the door – no, how did she forget that one? The reflection in the mirror starred at her. She hesitated, then undid her robe and let it fall to the floor. She closed her eyes and touched her head. Her hand moved down to her chest. Her eyes opened and a tear fell out. It ran down her cheek. She wiped it off and took a deep breath.
“No more tears,” she said.
She took the mirror down from the door and turned it around. It was time.
It felt cold. She held it firm between her finger and thumb. It was colder than the ice. A shiver ran through her body. It fell to the floor like a steel leaf. Sanguine tears ran down her fingers and hit the tile, making a sound like rain. Her eyes felt heavy. She saw the bottle and the book in the fading light; she smelled the lavender and wine; she heard the music soften with each note. A feeling of warmth engulfed her in the sea of tiny glaciers.
A smile.
No more tears.
one of us has to die
One of us has to die. That's what he said on the phone. If we wanted our children back, one of us would have to kill the other.
It was my fault for meddling in his life and calling him out on his grave mistake. It was my fault for naming him a criminal and threatening to take this to the police. It was my fault for following up on my threat. And now, it was my fault for putting my family in danger.
I bury my head into my hands. It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fault. No matter what happens, someone in this family is going to die tonight, whether it was my husband, my children, or me.
I pick up the gun he left for us and shoved it in my husband's hand, forcefully wrapping his finger around the trigger. I point the gun straight at my heart without hesitating.
"Shoot me."
Fear shines in his eyes, the sea-blue eyes I fell for years ago. I wasn't going to be able to see them anymore. His hand visibly trembles as he slowly pushes the trigger back.
He stops, a tear trickling down his cheek. "I can't do this, Kayla. I can't hurt you."
I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart as my voice shivers on my next words. "Do you have any better idea?"
He purses his lips, the rosy lips I have kissed every day since we first started dating. I wasn't going to be able to do that anymore. His eyes widen, and somehow I know inside that neither of us is going to like his idea.
"Well," my husband stammers, "What if we...um...don't want our...um...children back?" He says it more like a question than a statement.
He doesn't believe in it. We have lived our years. Our children, aged 3 and 7, were so young. They have the entire world left to explore. They have so much time left to live. It isn't fair to take that away from them because of my mistake.
No. It has to be one of us. I think and think and think and make my final decision.
I grab the gun from my husband's hand and take it into my own, pointing it at his forehead. He looks shocked, a sliver of worry showing in his eyes.
"Honey, please listen to me," I say, trying to convince myself this was the right thing to do. "This mess is all my fault. We both know that. It is true one of us is going to die tonight, but it's going to be harder for the person who is alive.
They will have to go through the pain of knowing that they were the cause of their spouse's death. They will have to go through the pain of keeping this secret as our children grow. They will have to go through the pain of eventually telling our children this, knowing very well that our children could betray them. That is pain beyond death, and it is unfair for you to be the one facing this pain while I, who made the mistake in the first place, happily rest in heaven. I'm sorry, sweetie."
And I pull the trigger.
#2
May tiptoed by like a frightened hare, caught in the headlights of the spring. We wielded nervous laughter and shy smiles like they were a language. Tentative, hopeful.
Wild. That’s how June felt. The rush of picnics, headaches from the ACT, sudden honks from cars that shook us awake. Longing crept into my heart, carved itself a spot below my sternum. I saw sunflowers for the first time.
July, more muted than its cousin, surprised us in its glory, all white-tipped mountains, sparking cider, and we watched it from afar, as if in disbelief. Its Portuguese cliffs made me furious. Its shoe stores made you cry.
August brought heat, heavy torpor that settled on us like a skin, making us lazy, making us slow. Too distracted, busy pleasantly lying to ourselves, we didn’t spot the frustration rolling in. To hell with college, we agreed. To hell with friends, we said, and drifted quietly to sleep.
Where August slept, September screamed. A reckoning. The frustration cracked me open, and I spilled all my hot, hot anger onto you.
October stood for weariness. We tried to prop each other up, each offended by the other’s shaking, the lack of sleep etched into the other’s sighs. Our eyes lined with resignation, I fought with my sister, you wrestled with your mom. My world felt dull and faded, bland, without the usual October colors that I expected. Where were my fiery reds, the yellows I could melt in, oranges so crisp they smelled like rain? I shrivelled.
November was my jeans. They were Brandy Melville jeans, I think, mom cut, washed denim, pretty sleek. When they arrived, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Gorgeous! Gorgeous, gorgeous, pulled them on, zipped them up, nearly choked. Were they designed for a popsicle stick? I don’t know why I had hoped, and yet I wore them. Paired with chlorine, wet streaks, a plastic roof, they looked good on Thanksgiving day.
I cried and cried and cried. To hell with college? To hell with midterms, I told you. You reached for me and swallowed up my tears. I dove into your arms, nauseous as I hit water. The trees outside covered themselves in shiny frost with me, in true December solidarity.
January felt like a wave of bile rising from my stomach. I couldn’t stand to think of it, and though you knew, you didn’t feel it. The exhaustion started peeling back, culring off my eyes like layers of scratchy wallpaper. If December was a month to mourn, January planned, timidly, ahead.
Fuck February’s ibuprofen. I have never been so worried in my life. When I finally cracked, you handed me the glue to put myself together. Thank you.
March, I relearned how to tilt my chin up. Pondered the quiet gravitas of those who love, and salvaged the strangeness of those who do not give a shit. Every time I looked at you, I smiled, because your hair was overgrown and you looked stupid, spreading ACME monopoly tickets across your carpet, charting the course you wanted them to take. You still made me killer salads before class, and I still ate them to the point of sickness. We celebrated break.
I made you lemon bars in April. You loved their sweetness, their swirl of yellow. I started looking at apartments, first in Lisbon, then Prague, Madrid, Barcelona. We sent two emails together, and got chased off a park lawn by Montclair police.
Another May. I brought you churros, you threw me lemons, I delivered rollerblades and pulled you by the elbow as you screamed that you were going to die. I’ve worn your blanket as my armor (and your t-shirts, your scratchy sweatpants, the Champion sweatshirt that you got for Christmas). We still nervously laugh from six feet apart when your mom comes to check on us, Friday nights spent on your porch. I still smile when you ask to go biking. I feel more filled up, sunnier, than I did this time last year. You still look just as dumb, though. And I love you for it.