A flower, a petal, a stem.
A woman, her body, her mind.
A flower, its beauty celebrated, its imperfections cut off and discarded.
A woman, her smile praised and her frown neglected.
Planted in soil, growth beneath the surface, roots move dirt around as molecules form something where only a seed once was.
She grows older each year, her wisdom becomes astute, as her botox bills increase.
Watered and observed the plant appears, its stem small and its growth only beginning.
She finds her reflection to be adequate but to what standard?
It grows leaves, height and in its newest stages green is its only color, all parts of the plant that make a flower possible to grow, all parts that are never used, cut or placed in a vase.
She finds comfort in literature, interest in construction and intrigue in a history before her time. Her green stages are her favorite, they are her richest part, they are what separates her, they are the parts no one wants to see.
The flower is seen in the garden, it sits on its stem and is surrounded by its leaves, the soil helps it grow and we see more buds around it begin to bloom.
She is happy in her home, she has her books, easel and comforts she is content with. She finds her days alone her happiest. She can be flowerless as green is her favourite color.
Her flower is cut off, its stem darkens, the leaves torn and other flowers with it taken from its home.
She finds herself in a world that celebrates beauty, sees opportunities that have her leave her home. Suitcases filled, hotel rooms booked, and 10k more followers acquired.
The flower is placed in a vase, displayed for all to see its beauty, the leaves in the bin or left where the flower was grown, where it thrived and whose home is not inside, the sun basks on it, the viewers, with no interest in its leaves or stem scrutinize its small tears on petals that are then taken off, scrunched up and discarded.
She sees the spotlight, the cameras around her, the accents thick and the faces unfamiliar. Names called, not her birth name but it's all make believe anyway. Play along little girl, your flower, the part of you that never seemed to matter when daisy chain crowns were your favorite thing to make is all the world wants to see. They smirk at the imperfections, so you fix them, they judge the long responses so you become quiet.
Observing in a vase, the view is different, the other flower plants around are no longer in my site, there's things I've never seen here, my surroundings make me sick as diffusers let out smells of flowers like me who have been taken from our garden and placed inside.
My view is different, two lives to live but one has a darkening stem, its petals are shriveling, its oxygen is depleting, it is dying.
Dissociation begins, numbness surrounds me, New York, LA, London and Greece make for a nice view but it's different, the smells are not the same, the air hurts my nose as I try to breathe. Returning onto NZ soil I cry. Out of relief, or because I know I'll be back at the airport with silenced lips within the month.
Friends come over and the flowers get less than a second's appreciation for its death and sacrifice is not valued by the person who stole it from its home.
Stories untold, NDA’s signed and celebrity relationships in headlines with glasses hiding tear stained eyes but the private tour of tiffanys really wasn't as nice as the garden I came from.
Silenced but pretty in a world of flowers
