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.
for the next eight years to set the standard
for it's frequent returns.