“i don’t have a favorite flower,” she responds.
knowing that in the back of her mind the answer is really tulips, but she doesn’t want to admit that anymore.
admit that you were once apart of her.
admit that you once betrayed her, left her, broke her.
admit that still after all of this time that all of her favorite things stem from you.
admit that she thought the pain would end a week after the betrayal.
a month,
six months,
to now six years…
still betrayed and stung, like the wound just happened yesterday.
She has done everything to rid you of herself.
She has done everything to find herself without you lingering, but you still do.
so she finally lies the next time someone asks, “what’s your favorite flower?”
“i don’t have a favorite flower,” she responds.
but really it’s tulips.












