The Quiet Violence of a Vase

Sometimes, I wonder where the other way went.

I don’t quite remember being arranged.

I’m not lost.

Just– 

I feel there used to be more beneath me.

The glass that surrounds me snatches my waist, widens at the bottom, and knows exactly how much of me it is allowed to hold.

I am visited every blue moon with water, a trim, a turn towards the window.

“A little to the left–

No!

More to the right.

There.

Perfect!”

I think they are helping me. 

At times, there are pieces of me floating beneath the water.

Still.

Cloudy.

Still,

They say I’m beautiful here. 

I don’t quite remember what that means, though I think I believe them.

How lovely to have been kept, even when there’s less and less of me left.

Wilting is quiet here. No matter how deeply my petals darken or how stiff my stems become,

a hand always comes to soften my decay.

Whatever looks wrong never remains for long. 

The wither is nothing but a whisper compared to how perfectly I stand.

Still.

Perfect! 

Perhaps this is what they mean when I am called beautiful.

In this place, I might just be eternal.

I don’t quite remember what that means.

I think it is a beautiful word for something that has already died.

Strike out,

Dahya Goolsby, Writer