Delicate Little Flower

Always giggling, always laughing. No emotion on her face but the pretense of glee she puts on every morning. No trust in her eyes but the one she wants you to believe will remain unbroken. No truth from her lips but the ones she spends every day and every night cultivating. No name but sorrow. No greater joy than ruin.

The delicate little flower no one wants to de-petal. No one wanting to fray her precious sepal. Everyone but me. Expecting her to wilt and suffer as she made me, and dozens of others before. Instead, she thrives. For what they don’t tell you about the delicate little flower, is that she has thorns. Just my disturbance of her caused her to bloom brighter. My blood, tears, and sorrow watering her roots and lengthening her stem.

One rebel and she cries ‘Innocent!’ One push and she yells ‘Victim!’
One rebuttal and we’re left staggering backwards.
And who wouldn’t believe her? Who would shun the likes of a weeping flower? They don’t know she’s using her facade of tears to water herself.
They lift her up, everyone else be damned, and once again, she thrives.
 

Always giggling, always laughing. No emotion on her face, no trust in her eyes, no truth from her lips, no faith to put in, you might as well die. 
No name but sorrow. No greater joy than ruin. No hopes but destruction. No happiness but suffering. No life, but death. 
The delicate little flower, moving her way up. Using the blood, tears, and sorrow she strips from those who dare to get in her way.

Left with no victory, instead failure. No peace, instead constant worry.
The delicate little flower cries ‘Innocent!’ And we’re left to cry ‘Villain.’