I call a conference with all of the men I have ever slept with.
They meet me in a field of soft grass while the sun sinks into the tree line. They talk quietly amongst themselves.
I clear my throat to speak and they form a circle around me. Each man is holding a flower in the middle of their chest. They are the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen.
“These are my flowers” I begin, gesturing at each one.
“I have called you here because I want them back. I made a mistake and I don’t want you to have them anymore.”
I point to a garden bed behind them, where the dirt is dry and hard.
“I have no flowers left and I would like you to give them back” I say.
The men are expressionless while I turn on the spot, looking each one in the eye. Time passes, hours and hours in the seconds it takes me to make my way around the circle. I notice myself shrinking in the silence. Down I go, down down down. Soon, the men are towering over me and I must strain my neck to see them.
“Please give them back,” I whisper. “Please. There is someone else I want to share them with, someone who loves me, who deserves to see them all.”
Some of the men start to laugh, while others throw their flowers to the ground. Some choose to gyrate with the flower between their legs. A few hold their flower out to me, sadly, but by then I am too small to reach for them.
I sit in the grass, the size of a pea, and cry.