an orchid, unappreciated, in the hour, of its color

a tulip, traded for a house

all of its potential beauty

measured, before it blooms

What happens after the flowers bloom?

they were kissed, and felt, only so many times

Sometimes, their petals get pressed between dusty pages

like old, dry, photographs

semi-colorful, semi-bright, mummies

with their skin stretched tight

folded across coat-hangers of bone

like distended bellies, that never bore any children

they were snipped, and plucked, thrown at weddings

and trampled on

Love is a rose that is loved

tears are more special than raindrops

we can’t keep ourselves alive

without emotional rainstorms

in the desert, nothing grows, but prickly cactus

because they hold their tears in

and hope for far away clouds.