I live in a garden
in the forever green
of an eternal springtime.
I am a daisy
plain and white
colorless, bland.
She, the gladiola,
sits in the corner,
yet captures the most attention.
She screams reds
and violets and azures
a different shade from any other.
I envy her color,
her ability to
command that
visitors yearn to touch her,
caress her petals and
awe over her height.
I awe over her.
With the color
and the magnificence she creates
they want to take her
and yank her
and stuff her into a vase
on a kitchen table.
Pretty for my plainness,
people smile towards me,
pet my petals, patronizing.
But they want her, crave her,
demand her.
I'm the only one who
loves her.
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