Flower

You call me a flower But what kind? Is it a yellow tulip? A cluster of warm sunshine and happiness? Or maybe a Lily of the Valley? The tears I’ve shed for you made into delicate little milky white blossoms Each petal carefully watered by the streams of water that run down my cheeks Or am I an Aster? A small star, made from Astrea’s tears, so small and insignificant compared to the shining, sparkling gems that light up the night sky. Looking up at those ethereal jewels, never being enough. No wonder Astrea cried, I would’ve cried too. Or am I a White Lily? My innocence and purity once so clean, as white as snow now forever tainted with your darkness. A dark, unremovable mark on the alabastrine flower, that will stay, no matter how much I try to get rid of it.