Flowers

Throw away the dead bouquet, dear.
The flowers have wilted
faster than you ever will.
The redolant languor has faded
to the cloying smell of fear
and loneliness;
and you spend too much time
comparing their
sickly-skinny stems
to your own wasted form
in the mirror.
The colors have faded to sepia.
You have faded too.
You envy their vase of water,
the way they require nothing
but sunlight and love.
They’re already dead, dear.
They’ve been dead since
they were plucked from their roots.
They died long ago, dear.
And so did you.