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My orchid died last winter.

I kept the sickly sticks by my wall, it was all I had left for their bloom to never come. Shouldn't have brought anything still breathing where they cannot survive just to breathe in a charade night by day. Not in the blinking purple and blues slapped across walls, could there be found comfort. Deluded to find sweetness in the rotten apple gifted to seep into another person not yet touched by its bane. It was the first ever such burn for a child's tongue. It dizzied and blurred for the next eight years to set the standard for it's frequent returns.

My orchid died last winter.

I kept the sickly sticks by my wall, it was all I had left for their bloom to never come. Shouldn't have brought anything still breathing...