The End of Lusty-Gallant No one ever explains that when you pick A flower you become a murderer. She sits like a statue, simple and beautiful against the roughness of the world not fully seen. He loves me, Can I still be soft if I scrub my body with rocks? Finger tips trailing along skin can be just as cold as no hands at all. Yours were. I would sit in gardens that didn’t fully belong to me and pick petals from living flowers, why did no one tell me? Your breath like water to me. Flower shops make their money from love and death, same occasion, different name. Flowers must hate the sun and the moon always watching them. I named your eyes Sun and Moon. How many petals do you have to pick for a flower to die without cutting its stem? I lost count a long time ago. He loves me not. She sits in the garden burrowing her toes in mounded dirt. Bury beauty to feed the real living thing.
Olivia Abt is currently a junior at Central Washington University majoring in Professional and Creative Writing. While she is currently unpublished, she hopes in the near future to become a published writer. After graduating Olivia wishes to work in publishing and become an editor herself.