The Clearance

They're dying on my desk.

That's the whole joke, I think—

they brought them as a prank,

grabbed them from the clearance bin

where nobody wanted them,

where they'd already started to go.

One petal has curled brown,

crisp like it's been dying for weeks,

which it probably has.

The water smells like something left too long,

like something that was never meant to last

and is finally keeping that promise.

I should throw them away.

I know I should.

But if I do, then I'm admitting

that nobody thought to give me good flowers,

that nobody brought me something

that was still alive and beautiful

and worth keeping.

These dead ones are proof

that I was thought of at all,

even as a joke,

even as something to laugh at.

So they stay in the vase on my desk,

and every day they get worse,

and I keep not throwing them away,

because the absence of them

would be worse than their presence.

The water is turning dark.

The petals are all starting to curl.

But at least they're here.

At least someone looked at me once,

even if it was to bring me something dying

and laugh.