The lily’s violet petals quiver slightly in the wind, bending the stalk with its gentle breath. I hold the firm flower between my thumb and forefinger, grasping it more tightly than I should be. The sides are beginning to give in.

I imagine I am being watched now. I am never alone anymore. They do not dare to let me be, for who knows what could happen? My sharp, bitter laugh rings echolessly in the air, ripping cold air through my lungs. I know what could happen.

The lily, a common favorite, burns into my hand. I should not be here, holding this, thinking this, being this. It is not my place. I reject it.

The flower falls from my hand, coming to rest upon the fresh grave. As the lily tumbles through the air and lands on the soft, new grass, I whisper, “I am sorry,” to my never-to-be-born, my undoing, the only child of my womb.