No Flowers

No guests, no flowers; that's all she wanted. Sorrow grew like a cancerous tumour, her pain so unfathomable, her mistakes so unforgivable, her regrets, albeit human, allowed shame to steal her hope. Like premeditated thievery, all her doubts and fears broke into her soul, carefully removing bit by bit all of her goodness, all that those around her still saw, was missing. Just gone. Her eyes once playful began to hold the anguish in their reflection; some who cared about her saw it, some who passed by her in the market may have thought, "that woman is tired". Truth is, she was tired. Tired of the fight that everyday life brought her; tired of not just her physical pain, but tired of the redundancies, questions, and the reminders of how not enough she had been.

Her beauty was never honoured, her worth ne'er imprinted upon her. That's the God given job of all life forms; it's the one thing all babies need, to be taught to thrive, to not just survive, but fight for life. Yet, in all her existence, she didn't feel valuable or believe in who she could be. So she accepted the below average, the place where even the status quo is unreachable.

She wanted others to laugh, to love, to be happy; she did reach out. What if one more hand had held hers, had a good sit down with her and assured her that they had her back, that they would help her find the answers, to get her the help, the paid for ear that listens when no one else can. What if?

Like the impending solar eclipse, a darkness, a doom of great certainty came over her and it covered all the bits of life and light she had left. No more birthdays, no more fighting, no more ugly, stained memories or labels she couldn't shake.

She would clean up her own mess; claim it, own it in a way that would erase the promises she could not keep.

All she asked for was no guests; no flowers.