A Picked Flower
Perfection, bounded by its unattainable nature, is what makes it so desirable, yet so intoxicating. Accepting Imperfection. A nuanced concept for a woman— We are expected to thrive with perfection, yet are not watered with perfection. When our source of light is one another, we must entangle ourselves in the past, present, and future of our shared womanhood. Through this support, our stems have turned upright, but the edges of our leaves remain withered. For a flower, there is a constant expectation of beauty, vibrance, and livelihood, even when we are picked. We are discarded of as we wilt. We are used and then forgotten. We are much like a flower. Bloomed, picked, and thrown out. Always expected of perfection. As we linger onto our reflection through the transparency of a glass, As we stop time to check our hair, our makeup, and our smile through the mirror of pixels, As we stare at a photograph of ourselves for enough amoun...
