I can love a lily all I want. Water it and watch it grow, admire the softness of its petals, lavish in its rich color. Too much is never the answer, though. It will be tainted by my touch, even reject my tears of desire. It won’t see my passion as beautiful, rather as a sign of complacency. For it knows something I often forget:

True beauty is knowing the flower that I am. For I radiate brilliance and blossom with promise. I can stand without roots, even follow my dreams. I don’t need the water or the essence of another. I am already more than I could ask for.