Flowers in Low Light
12:30 AMFlowers follow instructions.
They open on schedule.
Keep their noise small.
Pretty is just light flattering a body that learned how to hold still.
Shh.
Wrong switch.
Try the other hush.
Teach the stem to forget noon.
Praise the absence like virtue.
They’ll call it grace and mean obedience.
Once, a child held up candy to the room.
The proof of goodness.
Then the room took it, snapped it clean, and called it lesson.
Sweetness has edges,
everyone denies them until they bleed.
Regret outruns sugar. Always.
(That was the first ripple: why does the nice girl feel wrong?)
Which face is prettier now?
Who learned the timed smile?
Mark the cheerful.
Stamp the hollow where the joy used to sit.
Call the names.
Watch who turns.
Most love makes a U-turn.
Some get lost on purpose.
Some get lost on purpose.
If you flinch at quiet, you arrived too early.
Light only stays for the latecomers.
Hide the salvage.
Deliver sorrow in tidy parcels with tracking codes.
When they settle in,
turn the wrench one click deeper.
Change the password after every “I understand.”
Threads hold better after they learn to ache.
They remake themself between handshakes.
Of course the flowers bloomed.
They prefer when no one is looking.
Petals are receipts; beauty is what the light owes the dead.
The petals exit like weather.
We keep a coat on the hook anyway, just to test for noticing.
Most people leave when the pockets are empty.
The few who stay learn to like the lining.
And when faith finally comes.
Late, polite, damp along the edges.
We stack coins: tiny, obedient sorrows.
Light leaks through because it’s nosy, not because it cares.
The bright ones aren’t puzzles; they’re access panels.
Wait beside the flower long enough and you’ll learn nothing,
except that you’re still here.
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