423Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVWLeT0KLkc
I always thought it was ironic, the blood red petals. Like, the flowers we remember you by are the colour of the blood you shed. Why am I celebrating your death with a flower, anyway? Why should a Poppy represent your life? You did more than stand in the middle of a grass field, the wind pushing your limbs around in the breeze. You weren’t a Poppy. I mean, I can’t even simply place one next to your name, I have to buy one for a dollar from the War Memorial shop. Is that what your life was worth? A dollar and an artificial flower? I don’t even know why I keep coming back, spending my money so that I can put a piece of plastic next to your name. I watch each time as people around me break down in tears, blowing their noses into tattered handkerchiefs, snivelling over their loved ones names. I wonder how much people spend each year on the artificial Poppies. I take my artificial Poppy and scrunch it up in my hands, tearing the fabricated red petals into little pieces; tearing your life into little pieces. I feel hot tears run down my cheeks as I run my hands in the cracks in the wall where dozens of people have placed meaningless Poppies next to meaningful names. Through my tears I can see some people start to approach me aggressively, I’m about to get kicked out. I can hear myself sobbing as I tear apart the Poppies; tearing apart everybody’s lives like you did. Why did you have to die? And why should a fucking Poppy console me?
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