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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The flowers died Monday. Their heads bowed first— a quiet, obedient surrender. No new bouquet at my front door. No doorbells ringing to announce beauty had survived another night. Only stems stiff with memory and petals already learning how to disappear. I ordered a new bouquet. It was supposed to come Friday. I told myself that meant something. Tuesday, the quiet arrived. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that sharpens itself. The kind that presses its ear to your chest and waits for you to notice it listening. The kind that screams without making a sound and reminds you why you keep yourself busy— why stillness has always felt like a threat. Wednesday, I picked up the pen. I wrote what the silence whispered when it realized I was alone. I learned how my mind speaks when no one interrupts it. How it doesn’t comfort— it catalogs. It names things carefully, as if preparing an inventory for a future without me. Thursday, understanding arrived without mercy. It wasn’t just the world decaying. Not just humanity unraveling in polite daylight. It was me. I was dying slowly— the safest way to die. No spectacle. No witnesses. Just erosion disguised as routine. Friday came. The bouquet didn’t. I let the silence sit beside me. Let it breathe my air. Let it tell me its secrets— how it grows fed on neglect, how it seeps into bone, how it doesn’t rush because it knows it will win. By then, it had reached the marrow. Saturday, I picked up the pen again. But this time, the words cut back. Sharp as the tip they bled from. Each line a confession I didn’t know I was making. Each sentence a small wound that refused to close. Sunday, I realized the truth. I was already among the walking dead- the kind that resets the countdown by breathing, by letting the heart continue out of muscle memory. The kind that keeps choosing tomorrow not because they want it, but because habit is louder than despair. Then Monday returned. The bouquet arrived— dead. Petals collapsed inward, soft with decay. Stems bent beneath a spine too weak to remember how to stand. The thorns were still sharp, though— sharp enough to stab their own leaves, sharp enough to prove some things survive only to cause damage. But the flowers weren’t the only thing that arrived dead that night. Something left me when I opened the door and took the bouquet into my hands. Something quiet. Something essential. Now the room smells like rot. And I can’t tell which of us is more gone— me, or the flowers that died on Monday.
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