I buy myself flowers to make myself feel better, face them toward the sun. I buy myself the conventions of womanhood, dab a little on a tissue from each eye.
She stopped singing in the kitchen because he complained about her voice.
Petals pressed between pages, we wait in hunger. We shift tone and color. We transition from first to third person, because the second is removed.
Love is patient and kind, flowers facing the sun. I buy myself the conventions of womanhood, simple sacrifices, dishes drying by themselves.
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