“Vose/ Vase”

People get confused as to what to call me. Vose, vase, it doesn't matter just fill me up will you! Hahaha. It doesn't matter how full I am anyways. At some point I will be empty. And it doesn't matter how empty I am because I will be full. At some point. It’s the cycle. I begin empty and open. Filled with the possibility of all of the beautiful things that can go inside me. Something fresh and new. Clean and pure. 

I used to get really sad at first. With each bouquet dying one after the other. They say insanity is expecting different results after doing the same thing over and over again. It was an arraignment of baby breath and daisies that brought me to the acceptance of death.  This will happen. And it’s beautiful. 

There are details, on top of me grooving into me. De tales. The stories we tell. Our bodies tell things to other people. What we’ve held and what we will hold. Stories of weddings, funerals, birthdays, heartbreak, grief, lust, apologies, honor, respect, hope.  

Life is put into me. It dies in me. It sucks up what's flowing inside of me. Each stem, leaf, petals represents something inside of me. I’m as fragile as I am strong. The scariest moments are when I’m being cleaned. Held by your soft slippery hands. Knowing that I could break if I slipped out of your hands. It really doesn't matter what you call me, just put life into me.