My room fills with perfumed petals, sleek like the back of a wet seal. There is nothing I can do to stop them from covering my bed, my dresser, my closet, my pants drawer. Eventually these petals will cover my throat, my eyes, my ears. For now I look at the ceiling, stained over the years from vinegar and baking soda experiments and spiders making their home. Beautiful, in a way these petals are not–the vulnerable imperfections, the candor in it showing itself for exactly what it is.