the first seven lives of a daisy. 

this is not a happy story.

unless you know how to make

daisy chains.



she stood at the window and the freshly worn blanket wrapped around her waist and her chest


she folded her hands and then with her right, felt her lips trembling.

she forgot to turn the heat off in the house and the softness of her skin was slowly turning moist.

her necklace, the pendant with the symbol of Aquarius rested gently just above the area where her jawline almost choked her that evening.

a drop of sweat from her forehead dropped onto her left hand resting on her stomach and she could feel, she could feel her chest rising up and down.


she dropped the blanket.

we don’t see her face.

we don’t want to.

the red in her eyes and her nails almost chipped to rotting wood, and her brows creased.

she ran to the bathroom.


was going to be sick.


it was dark.
very, very dark.
and there was traffic.
if you moved your feet a little out of the pavement, you’d get run off by a car, a motorbike,

a car, a motorbike,

a person.

she was.

she ran over herself.

that night, she ran over all of her.

seven lives.

if you looked closer, you could almost see the sun waving at you.

she wished she could.
to lift her hand, but a daisy weighed down on her fingers

the one which she bought,

just one,

from a supermarket.

So she ran over her

that night.

if someone could tell you about all her nights spent walking into the woods and back to her house every night, they would run out of words.

they would run out of nothing to say.

it was as if she



and one would swear that they could see her feet slightly above the ground.

a ghost.

“have you seen one?”
“I did, papa”, she’d answer every night.

even after he was dead.

even after when she thought he’d
kill her

and that night,

she ran over herself.


she hardly talked and every conversation, even at the bookstore,

“it’s blue.”


“it’s blue. that’s all i know. it was my.”

“we have many blue books, dear. you uh got a name?”

“it’s blue.”


on the phone,

“where were you?”

“i don’t know.”

“everything okay?”



“cool. see you later, Clem.”


“i’ll see you tomorrow?”

i don’t know.

“5 o’clock”, she said anyway



“what happened to your wrists?”

“just uh”

“did you…?”

“cat scratches.”
electricity runs only through the telephone lines.


3:55 am.

every piece of me aches.
and i can’t
get up
i don’t
the bruises
are purple now
i want
to end

she wrote. and then she scratched it with such intensity that the paper tore and the pen poked her finger.

it bled.


in this story, or rather

stories, I’m not going to tell you why

I’m not going to tell you why

why it happened

and you’ll wonder

what went wrong

and you’ll hate me

for making her a coward.

for doing

the wrong thing.

for not having


i’ll name her clementine 

and i’m going to tell you now

at the beginning

that she’s going to die.

not how.

not when.

not why at all.

and killing Clementine.

but when i write this

i know that somewhere

there’s someone who knows

i love the name


and daisies.



she loved a bonfire.

she used to play hide and seek behind it

knowing that she carried a darkness in her

and if she had to hide from them

they wouldn’t notice her.

at the end, when he found her and said, ‘

‘ah there you are baby. come to papa?’,

she jumped into it.



she loved the sky.

when they told her she could touch it

if she stepped into the middle of the ocean

because it’s calm there,

she tied bricks around her waist

so that she could hold the sky in her palms

a little




she loved yellow.

and when she stood looking at a wall of

yellow roses

from across the street

a tall guy stood, started smoking

and the smoke made them


she kept her eyes on her boots

and walked




she loved clocks.

she placed so many

side by side

different times

from different parts of the world

so that she could be everywhere

but when she was waiting for him

to come back

and he told her to wait by the clock

she didn’t know which one

to look at.

she found him




she loved headlights

and they told her

they told her she could see them

up close

bright and in her eyes


she laid down in the middle of the road

and then they laughed

when she did

when she closed her eyes and smiled.



she loved him.

like the first customer

in a cafe

in the morning

and even though it got busy

through the day

with so many people



not touching

her cup of coffee.

she didn’t know

that you don’t

you can’t get wine

in a coffee shop

that he

never showed up.

or worse

never told her

he was there

on the table behind her.

she couldn’t tell the difference.



she loved daisies.


she loved

she lost

nothing stayed.

nothing stayed.

nothing stayed.

and everything fell apart.



loved warmth
loved floating quietly on the water
loved making shapes out of the smoke
loved fixing the time on temporary clocks
loved headlights blinking on cloudy nights
she loved love when not loved

she loved making daisy chains.


but every time

she decided to fall off the bridge

(or her bed)

she thought she could maybe maybe

maybe make

another daisy chain.
but when she ran over herself that night
she knew
that courage
it was right there

that ghosts didn’t exist

in the living

that standing at the window

and thinking of

the only thing she loved meant to stay

she knew

right there

that she didn’t need to be told anymore that

she loved too much.

that even when you make a paper plane

and throw it on a glass window

it’d break.


so she bent the daisy stalk

and pulled the flower to her chest.

and the daisy chains stayed unmade

and the one in her hands,

it turned to dust.


the end.

now, after reading this,
if you’re still wondering what
what happened to Clementine

you know it.

if you don’t

it’s okay.

because you know what happened to the daisy,

and after a few days,

if you still want a Daisy to hold

in your unmade bed

because you miss Clementine,

there’s always another one

at the supermarket.


did you know



she never thought

she’d kill a daisy before?

the end, really.

by ruchita.