When all the Flowers are Dying

When I’m empty I can’t say what I need.

Because all the flowers are dying.

We send words out like paper boats onto the sea,

electric letters floating tenderly, softening under salt and moisture.

I hope they fall apart before they reach you;

their messages are empty.


On the day I was married the bouquet was filled with falling flowers, trailing ivy and thorn-less roses. White and green. As I held then, quietly dying in my hands, I felt then airy and light and not real at all – so pale and white that they might be able to put their hands through me and turn me to powder.

They all fell out, one by one, the sap of their breath drying and crusting at the edges. Now all of the flowers are dying and I am still in my white dress, waiting for life to start.

But everything is thirsty and broken, the limpid petals broken and shrivelled. The edges of my dress are dirty, and the buttons yellowing under desperate fingers. But I am sapless, trapped inside.

And all the flowers are dying.


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