I could only remember, without resentment, that Daisy hadn’t sent a message or a flower.
F Scott Fitzgerald, the Great Gatsby
I destroy them in lots of different ways:
Creating a steadily growing split in their soft, waxy whiteness,
Strangle them with the sick black ribbon that was tied around them “It’s only a penny extra”
Crush them into my wrists until they are wet, wrinkled, and their scent and blood is all over me,
Staining my dress, my hair, my skin.
He laughs in his booming way when I tell him
That I just don’t like them
I didn’t want them here
Like a spoiled child because I just can’t explain the cold furious hatred I had
For their proud, white, repulsive tongues
Uncurling with an awful kaleidoscopic symmetry
There is no beauty in them that I do not see in the leaves outside; they, at least, have the armoured colours of gold, tinged silver with frost,
And yet are cheap, free,
And these worth so much more.
The trash is taken out the next day,
And he brings me orchids instead.