until she hung her head in your flower bed. You scorched her with the sun, then blinded her in shade, until her petals turned
to blades. Just as her mother pulled her from her roots to make a colorful corsage. She wilted attached in her arms. You plucked her from
the garden to place on your lapel. You wore her well! But she died when you took off the suit and tie. Now sheβs flat and faded. If you touch her
sheβll crumble. Even her thorns have rusted into brittle mittens. She sits in a leather-bound book, as a space saver, page 43, in the crook of a page. She's placed