I water my plant, for hope that someday it will flourish - that it will be praised for its beauty and it will bloom.
I wish for its petals to be soft to touch, leaving a sweet smelling nectar to coat one's fingers. I wish for it to be colorful, blooming in the light of the sun.
I watch as others plant their flowers. They bloom the very next day, prize winning bouquets - each flower a different type of pretty.
Once again I must watch as another succeeds.
It truly is a distraught sight - this is what I was always good at. Yet so many others do it faster, and with more creativity. Disappointing, it is, the feeling that rushes over me is one only felt by the lowest of scapegoats. It's the type of disappointment to make your shoulders slump with your lips pressed tight. The type to make you stare down at the palms of your hands with a "why oh why" look on your face.
My flower blooms, but it is not as impressive. My flower is wilting, its petals wrinkled and coarse. It is far too overwatered, and everyone can see.
