dead roses

She placed dried roses in a glass, on her table. They were slowly crowding her room, the dead flowers, hanging from her mosquito-net to dry, standing in jars and mugs across the tables. by now she even had to take the floor into use.
To be honest, she didn't like the idea of them. They were so dead, their withered beauty only emphasizing their sorrow. But they were easy.
They would never need water or sunlight or new soil. and most of all, she wouldn't have to watch them die - guilty that she didn't care better for them. If they were already dead, there would be nothing more they could take from her.
So she lived on with her dead roses. Never watering them, never worrying that they might rot. and although it bothered her that their colours were faded and water no longer ran through their leaves, she continued gathering them, because they kept her wondering - would life become easier once you died?