Before,
I did not know what it was to be weary.
I felt the distress of a flower in bloom.
And somehow,
I was flower that knew
I was doomed to die.
And stricken with such a weight,
I compressed myself behind a pane of glass,
And became brittle as I prolonged the death of my purity.
Flat, dry, and faded, but I still hold my shape,
Under the pressure of the glass pane.