When He Asks Me My Favorite Flower

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He asks me my favorite flower, and I don’t hesitate. Sunflower. Bold. Bright. Brilliant. His eyebrows furrow, ‘Why not a rose?’ He implies their beauty, their danger, their poise. The way you can admire from a distance, but never get too close.

But I have never been a rose.

I have never been perfectly folded petals, turning in instead of out. I have never been thorns around my heart. I have always been a sunflower, stretching, reaching, opening. Unafraid.

Yes, if I could be a flower, I’d be that sunflower. Tender, yet resilient. Able to grow in any situation simply by finding the light. Known for its healing. Known for opening, for turning its face to the sun.

He shrugs his shoulders and we continue on with the day. A few weeks later, after I break his heart, he hands me three sunflowers. ‘For you,’ he says, ‘your favorite.’

Yes, I was always meant to be bright, bold, grow tall, and stand on my own.

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