Her ceiling is a garden of dead roses. A faint draft stealths under the door. Sets them swaying. Laying on her floor, she looks up at these floral corpses, and inverts her world. She is an underworld godess reigning over the casualties of love gone bad. And hovering in her carpeted sky, she can see that the petals gone hard. Like her heart. Hardened, yet somehow more fragile. And like those petals, hanging from their plaster ground, she is ready to fall. Though she tries to ground herself with rage. And thumb tacs. And twine. "A bit of practical distance," she lies, "may do me some good."
