Written in Class

Shattered Petals

I think in flowers.

This is because my memory rules my life.

I don't know why memories

and flowers are so equal in demeanor,

And connection,

But the likeness is something of familiarity.

You would think I could name and differentiate flowers, wouldn't you?
I can't.

I can say that bluebells mean loyalty,

That poppies mean sleep or dreams,

But would I be able to pick one from an unlabeled field?

Perhaps that's what makes them memories in the first place.

Do you remember the face of your first friend,

Or simply what they meant?

A memory is quite fragile, wouldn't you agree?

I myself have a strong one, but still

I cannot remember things,

ideas

or truths

that the connection to

I chose

to sever.

What is a choice?

If made in spite or in compassion, it remains eternal.

Wishes cannot undo unjust damage,

Nor can memories remain

Unbroken.

A flower does not think or feel, or does it?

Do you?

Or have you, too, forgotten how to be human?
Much like how I forgot to search for the sun,

Drowning in the water with use unknown,

Embracing the gentle

wilt

of shattered petals

of the flowers

of dreams?

Of the memory unspoken, untaught,

Unmade by a stupid choice,

A choice to feel hatred–

instead of grief?