There's something painfully poetic about burning flowers, watching as the white petals darken to a crisp and evaporate into the night as if it was always an unadmired essence of nothing.
Maybe I find it so because I used to think I was like that white flower, subtle and quiet, as I hung on the low branches waiting for a stranger's quick glance in recognition that maybe it was a beautiful flower in existence. But burnt, the charred petals and limp sternum was something more recognizable to me in the mirror. Nobody sees burnt flowers as a conventional beauty, if at all, but as an unnatural occurrence mutilated in chemistry by a twisted God whose love for fire and destruction wrought a strange irony in what should have been an aromatic but useless piece of shit in nature.
This is not what I am because I don't want to be a flower anymore. They're fragile and pointless and dainty and conventional for the simple minded mongrels whose mindless admiration is as insulting as being plucked as a bud. I'm not a burnt flower or any force of vegetation, but I'm beginning to think that I am the aftermath of massive destruction: The ash, the smoke, the mild burn at the back of your nostrils. This is what I am as a girl, grown from the dirt of rejection and ray of pity.
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