I could die tomorrow.
He keeps telling me I’m like a flower that needs sunshine and rain and a shed over my head that protects me from the thunder. I have thorns inside my petals that sting the wild dogs when they come chasing, but they can’t drive away the old man with the shovel. And I’m tired- I’m so tired- of telling him that flowers die, love. They die real soon. Their colors fade away and the petals fall and the thorns turn to dust. Beauty isn’t meant to be kept within four walls just because some onlookers may try to swallow its fragrance.
I could die tomorrow. Wouldn’t you regret your words then?
He tells me I’m like that book he bought when he was twelve years old and read it again and again and again until his fingetips had memorized the roadmap of my spine. Because crinkling pages sounds like home to him. And if he keeps turning the pages, soon my words will fade into thin air.
I could die tomorrow. How do you not see it, love?
But the truth is that I don’t know if there’s enough life left inside of me to die.
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