Perfect flowers do exist.

But only where the good people are.

When I close my eyes at night—

I like to think that only then am I waking up—and everything else is a dream.

Because why would a world without good people even be real?

We stay here to get better—

But what if we're too good already?

What if there are people who were always meant to be perfect flowers—

But it takes the universe exactly seventeen years to realize that they can't possibly belong—

And so they have to leave.

And then I try to wake up—

But I can't—

So I walk with eyes half-shut—

Only half-seeing the world I live in—

As my other half runs after the good people—

Don't leave me behind.


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