I’m not Bouquet

I am a sad bouquet that’s fast asleep on the floor of a locked church. This is my last day on earth. I am a toy in the hands of the bride and groom. My stem is shaking like an earthquake in Tokyo, but my blossoms keep it hidden. My mother wanted me to bloom in a summer-house, not in a glitzy minefield. I’m drinking sugar-water to create energy so I can fly through the air into the arms of the prettiest girl who’ll eventually let me wilt. Photosynthesis has packed his bags and gone to Florida. This vase fits my waist like a corset on beached whale. I’m wrapped in plastic that rattles more than a baby drummer with sewn maracas for hands. A cheap satin ribbon makes my pedals feel like they are constantly on fire. I can see my miserable friends share this flower death-row. Our babies’ corpses are tied to their lapels and paraded around like a Childs first milk tooth. We bring so many colours to this black and white tie affair. Our scents are so desirable that our ancestors are sold in supermarket bottles. I was never designed to be dried and then pressed into the index pages of a human photography scrapbook. The entourage brush past my family and breathe cocktail smoke onto our newly oiled skin. I look up and see a chandelier with all its teeth intact. I look down and I see the veins in my neck pulse to the beat of the wedding rehearsal music. I don’t like big crowds but I can’t avoid their glare. My head can barely support its weight from all the doubt. I get the gift of double-vision from extreme exposure to incense clouds. The countdown begins at the first toasting of cheap champagne. The green rushes out of my skin as if I’ve just seen a ghost or a gardener. The hotel suite respected me, but now I’m just some 3D wallpaper candy. It is very easy to get drunk from standing too close to shady conversations at a wedding. I am the proof that nice guys can finish last. I hatch a plan to disguise myself as a brandy glass full of absinthe, but I am instantly thrown back into my sugar vase. I was hoping this life in a vase was just a phase. Finally, the night ends and the alcohol breath get the last ride home. We are not afforded the luxury of explanations, and so we are thrown together like socks in a washer. I meet former neighbours and colleagues, but I can’t sense my way to my family. I can hear them call, but my strength is at an all time low. We are all confined to the inside of a plastic garbage bag with no perforations for air. The guests are sleeping in their hotel suites, with heads full of music and stomachs full of overpriced food. And we are locked up and left to bleed sap onto each other’s lap. Life is only valued if it can speak fluent human, and although we researched the books, we couldn’t find our voice boxes. I spend my last hour of carbon dioxide, thinking about how many faces I’ve fallen in love with since I was a little seed kid. I recall 4 Dates with a beautiful tulip named Aisling. 2 Dates with a gorgeous sunflower called Gemma, and numerous glucose days with Serena. I rewind the memories in my little head until the black plastic turns to a bright white. I would have been turning 3 months old this Sunday. I’m not bouquet.