character: 20s (he/him, they/them)

I don’t like lilies

I tell him, 

I’m not gonna sugar coat this for him

No matter how puppy dog his eyes go 

I don’t like them

I repeat, really trying to twist the knife this time

But he’s still holding them out, 

Still stood outside my house

half smiling like he did that time he broke my favourite orange mug

trying to melt my soul with that face 

They stink of piss-

I say. 

And not in a steamy sexy water sports kinda way 

I’m talking one a.m. in the men’s toilets at Wetherspoons 

Piss all over the seats

All over the floor

That’s lilies 

That penetrating acid piss that burns your nostrils and makes you think about that school trip to France where you got so car sick cos you stole your mum’s vodka and drank it the way she did like Evian and you spent the best part of an hour with your head down the service station toilet while everyone else got treated to special European sweets.

So thank you, but I don’t want your stupid fucking lilies

They aren’t romantic or poetic they’re mephitic and odoriferous, at best 

And I don’t need that kind of toxicity in my life at this point. 

They’re supposed to represent hope 

He tells me.

New beginnings

New beginnings?!?! 

As if he’s magically forgotten the torment he’s put me through

The devastation

The humiliation 

And I hate when people do that

When people use flowers to do the talking for them 

Like perfumed soaked puppets that we tear from the ground and repurpose for our own wrong-doings 

I don’t want your plant based Pinocchio to do your grovelling for you

Take me out for dinner and offer to pay 

Send me uber eats credit 

Or you know what- I’ll just take the cash

why waste your money on something that’s only gonna die within the next 24 hours because I’m absolutely not gonna bother putting them in any water because you know what: that’s actually more effort for me

So in essence your apology has actually become a chore for me

I now have to take on more responsibility because this is your way of saying sorry ? 

I’m not saying sorry,

He says. 

What? … but you spilt red wine on my whiteGucci tracksuit bottoms.

And he stares at me blankly like that time I told him I was in love with him

Like I’m speaking another language like French or Mandarin like German

Does he still not get it? Five months later, does he even know how difficult they are to find in any thrift store 

White Gucci tracksuits bottoms for fifteen pounds ruined. 

Ruined 

I can’t return them or exchange and I refuse to walk around with a massive red stain around my crotch 

They’re for your mum. 

I swallow something in my throat

Well what’s she gonna do with them? 

And then his face changes and his eyes glisten and it makes feel 

strange

Inside

Just like he did after that last night we kissed

When he told me he couldn’t do it anymore

When he said he didn’t love me enough

That he didn’t love me enough to help me look after her

When she was sick

When she was wasting away

When I was tired and we were fighting

cos I was drinking cos I was breaking cos he said I’d go the same way she did

And I reach for his hand to say I’ll change

To say I’m ready

but he backs away. 

I’m really sorry for your loss. 

He says. 

He puts the lilies on the gravel, and then he turns and I watch him walk away

Just like he always used to

When he said I’d made mountains out of molehills

or stories out of gossip and lies from twisted truth

when I’d spilt that fucking red wine

cos I didn’t want him to take it away from me and it smashed and it stained and I’ll change

but still I watch him walk away

after everything.

I pick up the lilies and go back inside. 

I stare at the room before me

Flooded with flowers

White

All of them

White.

Cards

Sympathies.

Photos

roses

and

new beginnings and

mum. 

And then I get a whiff of piss, take one final look at the lilies and throw them in the bin.