Poor wilted tulips had slunk down and cried at their inevitable fate. The water marks rippled down the glass, age lines that only mulitplied as their food supply slowly spoiled. They gasped what they could from the dank dregs as their human chortled into a small mirror brick, hair spun in a towel, her arm beating across the bench with a freshly moistened cloth. She was their torturer…

My experience with tulips is they do not last long. You could say this is my interpretation of how flowers feel when they come into my home. I do my best, but can be quite neglectful. I can't say it would be their most glorious  or comfortable demise, but at the end there I was about to really get into what those tulips think of me!

What voiceless thing in your life would have a strong opinion about you?