She is a flower. To me, the most beautiful flower with petals of every bright color on the spectrum, but to the world, a dark and wilting flower. Even she saw herself that way. And out of all the flowers in the field, I wanted to pick this one up the most, to care for it water it and feed it. And so I did. And for a second she saw herself the way I saw her. Her saw beauty in herself, not ugliness. Hope, not fear. And for a while I fed and watered her, I could tell she was happy, her petals pointing towards the sky. But it wasn't perfect. She started wilting. A flower can't survive long away from its roots. And so with all my strength along wi