Red.

There are flowers sitting on my table and they're redder than anything I've felt in a long time. When I stare at them for too long, I can feel them staring back. They make knots in my throat; I can't remember the last time you did that. I can't remember the last time I wanted you to-- no it was yesterday, 5:16, I was on my way home. I am always on my way home. I am always on my way from you.

They're surrounded by things that once mattered more than they should, that now don't matter at all. The memories have all gone home. With me, like me.

All I can think about is how you tried and how I never do, how unfair everything is. In high school, we took personality tests a lot and one of the traits mentioned was 'harmony' which was basically what you'd get if you valued equality and inclusivity and those sorts of world-peace-y sorts of things. And I swore I wasn't one of those people. Looking at those flowers sitting on my table now, it scares me how much it matters to me that you aren't getting what you deserve.

I want to pick the petals off the buds, off the bloom, colored more than I am. They should've been beneath my cheeks when I received them. I wasn't underwhelmed, not disappointed, just distracted. I'm sorry comma you should have gotten more comma I could've tried harder period.

*

Two days ago the flowers sitting on my table began to dry, the edges of their petals furling inward, stained with black as if someone had held them high above a fire. Haphazardly, something. I look at them wilting, their faces bowed away from the light and think they finally understand me. There laid something familiar. In a vase with clear water, I see myself with five others.

I can almost hear them breathe, lungs weak and reaching inside their decaying stems. When I push some petals back, I see their insides dyed yellow. They aren't as red (and neither am I); it seems I love them now more than I loved them then; poetic things I must preserve. More than memories, metaphors. I scramble to find six thick books to to serve as caskets.

They're falling apart when I cut the stems even shorter, decreasing them to stubs, unwinding the wires pierced through the buds that kept them upright. There were no wires to keep me upright, to straighten the spine, blush-pink the mind. I was falling apart when you gave me these flowers and you weren't enough to keep me together; it was a valiant effort; you are wonderkind.

I don't know how to tell you  I no longer feel, how my redness has gone, that you need to start looking for books whose pages you might press me between. A two-dimensional memory isn't as sad as it sounds. I am not the answer you are looking for. I was always meant to be something you once wanted.

I want you to bury me with love, still. I will remember you fondly, your petals redder than I ever was, fingers bleeding from my thorns.