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Buttercup Lament
My friend picked a bunch of buttercups from the courtyard today.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, as she handed one to each of us. “They’re weeds. They’re gonna die anyway.”
The rest of us smiled to ourselves as we slid the golden flowers into our hair.
Hours later, the buttercups in our hair withered silently. Wilting reminders of the swiftness of death.
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