Bouquet of Sorrows

Ava Bruni

I carry sorrows with me like a bouquet of flowers. They live in my head, tied neatly together with a ribbon. I tend to them habitually, trimming their roots as they try to attach themselves to my brain. I water them routinely, letting their pain flourish relentlessly. Every morning, I look in the mirror to make sure flowers aren’t blooming in my eyes. No one else gets to know about my bouquet; it’s my burden to remember and care for.

On days when it’s not enough to simply trim and water them, I can hear the sorrows whispering in my ears and crawling under my skin, begging to see the sun and feel fully nourished. Their roots burrow into my brain, reclaiming their rightful place as an extension of myself. They break through my skull and start spreading across my body. Before people have the chance to notice the leaves forming at the back of my throat, I cut off the roots and tie the flowers together again.

One day, I’m sure, my bouquet of sorrows will break free from their neat stature for good and evolve into a garden of weeds. As I try to pull them out and tie them back together, they will continue to sprout through the cracks in my skull. Flowers will blossom out of my eyes and ears and mouth. My lungs will be vines and my heart will be petals. At every attempt to uproot the sorrows and put my shattered skull back together again, I will fail and the roots will grow stronger than ever. The years will go on and my flowers will continue to fester until I am my sorrows and my sorrows are me.

Be Yourself!

Mia Hamilton

Colored pencil, water color