Lilium

To the wilting lilies on my kitchen counter:

I am reluctant to throw you out.

You bloomed within a day. Well, some of you. I snipped off your blood orange anthers with the kitchen shears, coating my fingertips with pollen before it could dust the slate and stain my clothes. Hand jobs are always easier to clean up.

I forgot to water you once. I'm sorry.

In the mornings I plucked chlorophyll-starved leaves from the countertop and tossed them in the rubbish bin. Your support system fell one by one, even as you still grew and opened up to the world.

Your petals began to turn limp and brown. I cut away the flowers that were no longer beautiful, but insisted the rest were good enough to keep – until they dropped off in pink clumps, leaving bare stigma behind.

There is not much left of you anymore. I putter over a few unopened bulbs among foreign greenery I can't name: small fading leaves and rubbery green leaves with velvet underbellies.

Still, I am reluctant to throw you out.

You are not the only half-dead thing in this apartment.