Word -- poppy
They say to stop and smell the flowers, but they don’t talk about what happens after you do. After someone offers you a lone poppy flower on the street, and you nod and smile politely, after they tap you on the shoulder and just insist you take it. They don’t talk about how after you smell it, you follow them back in a daze to a place you don’t know, a hidden door, a broken down base of sorts. They don’t talk about the magnificent field of poppies in the back. They don’t talk about how good it feels to stop and smell the flowers. How good it feels oh god how good it feels. How you sink to your knees and fall into the warm tickling embrace that are the flower petals, that are the wisps of pleasure weaving through your head, your mind, your thoughts. They don’t talk about how good and right it feels to always think about the poppies, to always have their influence in your mind no matter what you’re doing. They don’t talk about it, because they don’t want everyone to know. The poppies are so special. They’re so good to us. But we can’t just let anyone into our garden. We invite, very specifically.
Would you like a poppy? Please dear, I insist.