flowers on the curtains

I count the flowers each day

and each day they’re different in colour

different in numbers

from the garden to the room

and in the room my eyes, closed

I yearn to feel the flowers on my pads of my fingers

a single layer of dust adorning the petals

I wish to devour it

to smell it

the roughness of the flowers as I bite it

unsinkable

I swallow it, I cannot breathe

the flowers cannot be swallowed, I cannot breathe

the next day there are people in the room

I can feel it, their tears wiped away the dust

the flowers are now clean

they’re different, they’re pretty

I wish to touch them

to feel something, anything, but I am dead

asleep, eyes closed

my tongue choking me as I lay

it wants the flowers, it wants to be pretty

I wrap the flowers around my wrists, so beautiful, so much indeed

indebt to the colour matching my view, thump, thump, thump

i’m not alive, am I?

my neck adorns the flowers

sinks into my throat

I have flowers both in and out of me, I am now whole

they sink too far into my flesh

it hurts

thump. thump. thump.

i cannot breathe.

i cannot move.

i am me.

the curtains have closed.

-nn