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Daisy

by Lily Peavey


The little white flower is perfect in my hands. Ten, tiny, delicate petals in the purest white. The same color as snow. A perfection in a field of imperfections. In a world of imperfections, it is the one thing that is right in my world. One petal is pulled off to the ground.

He loves me.

The little white flower is imperfect in my hands. Nine, fragile petals in a white that is too bright to be natural. It is faking its perfection in a field of imperfections. It is just another imperfection in an imperfect world. It is wrong, like everything else. Another flutters to the grass.

He loves me not.

The little white flower is beautiful with its flaws. There are still eight petals of cloudy white. The flaws make it real but still like a dream. It is something real in a field of fakes. In a world of fakes, it is the one thing that is real in my world. A third is gone before I can blink.

He loves me.

The little white flower only has flaws. The two petals of cloudy white that saved it are gone. The flaws make it another nightmare. It is nothing but a fake. Like the rest of the world. Another thing is false. It seems the world itself is false. A fourth is gone in an instant.

He loves me not.

The little white flower is exceptional, still. The six, shimmering petals are white like a kitten’s fur. The exceptions are diamonds in the rough. It is glittering and reflective, like a mirror that will only show the best in you. It is the glowing star in the pitch black sky. Five left.

He loves me.

The little white flower is less than exceptional. The five, dull white petals are a boring and unremarkable white. The flower is cracked and untruthfully reflects reality. It is a spot of darkness in the midst of many stars who shine so much brighter. Four are left.

He loves me not.

The little white flower is stable. The four petals keep it steady in the wind like puffy clouds, unrattled by gales. The flower is not shaking at all and does not cower, despite the storm. It is a rock to cling to and be sheltered from rough and wild seas. Three.

He loves me.

The little white flower is coming apart. The three left are shaking, yanked this way and that, blurs of muddy white being tossed in fierce, dark storms. The flower is being pulled away by the wind, away from me. It is drowned by the too-big sea. The wind rips one from me.

He loves me not.

The little white flower is still here. Despite the wind and storms and messy seas, it still lives in my hands. Its two white petals are still white, its stem still here, despite it being so fragile. It is still here and that is all that matters. One petal.

He loves me.

The little white flower is gone. There is one petal left, the final one being pulled away with the fierce winds and the crashing waves. Its single petal is clinging on, the stem fragmenting in my hands, the leaves disappearing. It is gone and that is the cold truth. Nothing.

He loves me not.

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