I pick flowers brutally, and cowardly.
Without mercy or a second thought,
I pull them up, root and all.
If they sometimes put up a struggle,
I cut the cords with sharpened scissors,
enjoying seeing the limbs fall down dead.
It fills me with power,
and because I have none otherwise,
I perform this cruel ritual
at every chance I get.

I bring the dying flowers home,
bleeding and screaming their silent screams,
desperate to at least have their dying wish come true;
to wither and shrivel among the trees and grasses
and the birdsong of their forest home.

I toss them on my kitchen table,
sometimes I just leave them at my door.
But if I want to extend the suffering
I put them in a shiny vase.
Then I sit and stare for hours
to see how long they stay alive.

In few things I find greater beauty
than in watching beauty slowly die.
I have smashed every one of my own mirrors,
but now I pick these flowers up instead.