I’m a Delicate Fucking Flower

My mum asks me why I feel like I’m getting old, and I remember the morning when she came to my room at 10:00 AM and I had been trying to wake up since 8:00, and forcefully put lotion on my dry, cracking hands, while I was half-asleep and unable to protest against the terrible texture.

I awoke with the memory foggy, and wondered if I had dreamt it: I, a senior, chained to my bed— my fresh-faced mother putting ointment on my old, wrinkly hands (“I’m a Delicate Fucking Flower," the brand label read).