She hates flowers.

I would like to preface this writing by saying; A lot of times, when I write a piece that isn't as delightful or happy, people ask me what's happening in my life. I just want to clarify that my writing comes from the books I read, the friends I have, the strangers I pass by, day to day living, and the experiences that leak into my soul, but aren't necessarily all mine. All of my writing is personal, but not all is directly correlated to specific events in my life. (So baaack off!! haha). Also, most writing is positive up in here, but sometimes ish gets real and pieces like this pour out of me.

And on with the writing...

She hates flowers.

Flowers come with whiskey on his breath and all the gratitude or regret he's feeling, after it's running through his veins.

Full vases mean empty words. 

Each vibrant color supposed to distract her from the dullness in her heart. 

Distract her from the same scene that has played over and over again. 

Maybe, the burst of color from the Lily will evade her mind from the long night, she just spent wide eyed, waiting to hear the door open and him to return home, in a stumble. 

Maybe the stems soaking up water as fast as they can will regenerate her hope; that even after you're severed from your roots- you can survive. 

Yes, survive.

But for how long?

How long can a flower survive without it's root? 

It's the same as asking, how long can a woman survive without her backbone?

Just as the stem lets the petals fall; How long can she keep letting the pieces of her wither and fall, slowly, one by one?

The stem doesn't want to let the petals fall, after all, they are what make it stunning. 

She doesn't want to watch herself lose pieces of her being and so freely forgive and press on.

But, both are ruled by nature, not logic.

She hates flowers. They're just a reminder that all progress was lost and her and him are back in square one...again. 

She hates flowers.