even as a kid, I knew that
forever didn’t exist.
I pulled tulips from the earth
and brought them home with me,
but I wasn’t looking at the petals.
I was looking at the tiny hole
left behind in the soil
after the roots were ripped out.
it wasn’t about the
beautiful thing I had taken;
it was about taking something
from the planet that had
taken everything from me.
the tulips went into a vase and
I kept them, like any other kid.
but I wasn’t the kid
who marched in and proudly
showed them to their parents.
I didn’t show them to anyone.
I sat by the vase and
watched them rot.
they were my physical proof
that death is real,
evidence that my friend’s dog
did not run away to a butterfly farm,
and the old man down the road
did not mysteriously go to a better place.
they died, and they rotted.
I think about this often now.
I killed flowers not to admire them,
but to prove to myself that
even beautiful things can die.
I know how morbid that sounds,
but what you have to understand
is that my whole life had
revolved around death.
my childhood memories
were a sickening collection
of wilted flowers, of worms
burned into the concrete
after a storm, of rotting fruit
and swarms of flies.
my young mind showed me
the same images on repeat.
dead friends, dead relatives,
people who left me,
people who left this earth.
for my entire childhood,
I never got to stop seeing
lives that weren’t fully lived.
even as a kid, death didn’t faze me.
violence was nothing to me.
pain wasn’t fun, but it was tolerable.
even back then, I was numb.
I remember how being
so numb at such a young age
terrified my teachers and
scared my friends’ parents.
I didn’t know how
to explain that I was numb
because no matter what
horrors I was shown,
I had already seen worse.
