Since last November I've had a purple orchid in my bedroom window, placed in a small Lalique crystal vase my mother bought in Paris. It was as graceful and elegant as a piece of Dior jewelry, but I never cared enough to water it. After a couple of months it started shedding its sculpted flowers, but as long as it was alive I could think of it as a reminder that I'm a good person. I convinced myself that I loved it and secretly hoped it would be enough, but of course it wasn't.
The last dried out little flower fell off today as I watched it from my bed. It looked like a statement, like a public suicide in front of the people who never cared and never bothered to listen. Is that who I am?
I went outside, called S and just sat there quiet with her broken voice in my ear for an hour. I would never let anything happen to her, my beautiful little flower.
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