These flowers were supposed to still the withering

While I withered,

they  were to blossom

Maybe I grew jealous

So I drowned them

regretted it

drained them

And drenched again

They withered, I wither

I used to call my withering, “my annual moment”

When my throat throbs with tears held back in public,

the inability to cry in private

When comfort is binging

and binging makes me wither

Withering is no longer annual,

it is inescapable reality

Where I drown and drain, drown and drain

with utter,

boundless futility

These flowers- like me- are tired.

No need for water.

Just withering…

…and death.