Another poem about orchids

He gave me an orchid flower on my birthday

It stayed alive even though my insides were rotten

I abandoned it

Once home

I felt estranged

Stockholm syndrome?

I replaced it with another

I feel like it understood in every sense of the way that it had to wither in order for me to thrive

It didn’t hurt any less as I saw every petal dent the floor

It’s as if gravity was in no hurry that time

It took about two slow weeks for the orchids to be no longer

For myself to be no longer

Until I was, very slowly

Purged and pure

Puts fear into my heart to see another orchid before me

Will I foresee a re-enactment of my tragedy?

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