Listless and yawning, her gentle frame bows down. Even in this state, she is beautiful. There is something so soft and delicate about her, so much so, I worry that looking at her too long might harden her in some way. How can something so beautiful be real? I feel ashamed briefly, at the murmur of self loathing in my ear. I tell her to quiet down, she has no place here. Just, oh how I wish that I too were a flower girl. Even if I were to contort my frame into her posotion, I would feel a poser, a fraud. And so, I’ll admire her from afar and imagine in another life that I too am beautiful.