Yes, Scott, the flowers are beautiful.

All twelve of them.

But

That first flower doesn’t make up for a year of crying.

That second flower doesn’t make up for a year of pain.

That third flower doesn’t make up for a year of waking up screaming when I should have been sleeping.

That fourth flower doesn’t make up for a year of not wanting to get out of bed in the morning whether I’ve slept or not.

That fifth flower doesn’t make up for a year of smoking too much… drinking too much… but still not being able to forget.

That sixth flower doesn’t make up for a year of wondering how long everything… everything… was a fucking lie.

That seventh flower doesn’t make up for a year of having to tell everyone what happened that night… and what I found out afterward.

That eighth flower doesn’t make up for a year of not knowing why about any of it.

That ninth flower doesn’t make up for a year of this sucking black hole where my heart used to be.

That tenth flower doesn’t make up for a year knowing that the love I had for you was a fucking waste.

That eleventh flower doesn’t make up for a year of hating you… and sometimes… hating myself.

That twelfth flower doesn’t make up for a year of wishing you were what you used to be, and wishing I was what I used to be.

And none of those flowers can make me love you again.