Bouquet
by Madison Wierzel
Flowers in free fall.
Graceful, innocent, delicate,
Vulnerable.
They know not if they will remain intact when they hit the frostbitten ground.
They have no control over where they or their companions drift, living by chance, dying by design.
Ironic, isn't it?
How something that lives for beauty dies for ugliness.
Tunnel vision.
Suffocating standards, moral paroxysms.
Who are you to know what's right?
I certainly don't.
(But I know of love. Does that count?)
Double vision.
Which one am I? The one on the left, or the one on the right?
The wrong decision will cost me more than your respect.
You can only speak out of both sides of your mouth for so long before you forget what you actually believe in.
Believed in.
Bright lights.
Who ever said they're pure and holy?
They're really not.
The truth is you can see farther in the darkness.
But then you are blinded by the light.
Empty bottles.
Growth is insidious, a moral parasite.
But, oh, what a symbiotic relationship we have.
It feeds on my dying innocence.
I feed on its indifference.
Dusty attics.
You think I'm unaware. What a joke.
Go ahead, burn away your potential, burn it all.
Just remember you're lighting my funeral pyre.
Half-hearted hello's.
Or was it heartbroken goodbye's?
Ah well, we'll watch the video later.
Memories are only as good as last night's designated driver.
Or so we tell ourselves.
Dilapidated dreams.
In the end, will anything matter?
In the end, will anyone care?
We pride ourselves on being unique,
But that is now its own cliché.
Slow closing doors.
Will I make it in time?
Do I even want to?
Define "friendship." There now, don't be scared,
I won't hurt you. Can you say the same to me?
Hooded eyes.
It's funny what we can't see when we put our minds to it.
I know it's denial. Don't call me a hypocrite, you walking contradiction.
Yes, I said it. Life's a double-edged sword, you know.
Remember that the next time you're hilt-deep in my flesh.
Fresh snow.
So brilliant, yet so ephemeral.
It covers our mistakes, yes.
But it also hides our virtue.
Gravity.
It all comes back to the "laws" of the universe.
Like dutiful puppets we dance on our strings.
But no more, no more.
The flowers hit the ground now.
I look away.
