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When I was a little girl,
I picked a flower almost everyday.
I'd twirl it around in my tiny fingers,
To see every little imperfection it holds.
I'd pick every little ruined petal,
And save the best for last.
I would rip off the center,
Until a stem is all that shows.
Mindlessly, I throw the stem on the grass,
I'd forget the little baby flower, just as the last.
No flower is ever perfect to me,
There is one image I keep in store.
But I know I can never find perfect,
Because there is only "almost" or "close".
I realize now that this flower that I picked,
Was me not a small plant.
I'd pick and choose the flaws in my appearance,
But I never see or saw myself as perfect.
I'm never pretty in my own eyes,
And I know I never will.
This is the image many hold,
People of all types and genders.
We all push ourselves to be greater,
But we already are as great as we could be.
There is no perfect, not even an "almost" or "close",
There is just "you" and "me".