cold tea falls behind my teeth.

I always liked dead flowers better anyway--they're easier to draw.
at least they're done decaying. easier to relate to.
"sometimes too grand a compliment hurts worse than a slap to the face",
their pretty painted petals only ever waiting to die.

wherever they grew originally, I'm sure they thought they would live forever.
they thought they were free, but they were only beautiful, trapped in a greenhouse, blossoming, dreaming.
they were pink and thought they were immortal.

now they sit in a vase, next to my bed, slowly shedding petals.
the charade is over and they know it was no field they were growing in.

brown, like everything and everyone else now, we were beautiful and thought we were free.
but these days, flowers are grown for glass vases.