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The Life in Rhymes of an Angsty Teenager

By Lindsey Olver All Rights Reserved ©

Poetry / Other

Petals

I always had faith that one day I'd find the perfect guy.

My Prince Charming, the Adam's apple of my Eve's eye.
And every night as I would gaze up at that wish-upon-a-star sky.
I'd wish to meet someone like you, and fall asleep with a hopeful sigh.
But time after time, my wish didn't come true.
I was starting to think that I'd never meet you.
And as these thoughts would darken my mind, it would take everything I had not to cry.
It felt as though there was something persistently prickling behind my eyes.
That sting I felt would come and go, and I realized it was like those stinging nettles.
It was the total opposite of the frequently used "he loves me, loves me not" petals.
Although the two plants are different, they are also one in the same.
The beauty of the "he loves me" petals fades quickly into that horrid "he loves me not" game.
The number of pretty pink petals is what determines your apparent fate.
But the sadness that it causes is similar to the stinging nettles, if the odd number of petals doesn't turn out so great.
This is alike to the feeling I got after every promising boy I ever bet on let me down.
All the past boys who used me, leaving my heart in the dirt; on the ground.
Yet still I kept faith in my pretentious pink petals, like a troubled person finding hope in religion.
I believed so heavily in them not because I was desperate, but because I still had the perfect vision.
The most perfect, impossibly attainable daydream; unrealistic until the day you came along.
I listened to my heartbeat convince me that you were the one, like intuition, it couldn't be wrong.
Finally, I feel like it's safe to say that I have plucked the proper petal.
It seems worth it now to have walked through those fields of stinging nettles.
And to all those girls out there who are about to give up on their pretty pink flowers, please do not do it.
You may end up missing your chance at picking the perfect petal if you choose to quit.
Eventually you'll find someone to reassure you that he loves you, instead of waiting for a plant to spell out your doom.
Just know that your perfect romance is already underway and in bloom.
From now on, just have some patience; it is a virtue I have recently come to learn.
Because at last that towering pile of "he loves me" petals has given me my turn.

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97. Petals
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