Pretty things

 They were so pretty when I held them in my hand. Delicate yet, resistant. Their petals were softly brushing against my skin, as their stem stood tall and firm in my palm. Beautifully calm. I wondered why I plucked them. Uprooting them from their home. Just for the mere temptation of beauty my eyes caught sight of? Beauty I wanted to trap in a vase? Beauty that shall die with every passing hour… Why? Maybe I wanted to know? How beauty felt? To trap and learn from these pretty things. To study and be their subject. To be the dying flower in my own glass jar.. Fleeting by the hour…

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