you always complained that you were a dandelion in a garden of roses, a pest, a **** -- something unlovable.
and maybe you weren't perfect. maybe you were a bit rough around the edges with a crack here or there. maybe your seams had come undone and, if you still insist on being a flower, maybe you had lost a petal or two.
but what you failed to realize is that every rose has thorns.
so maybe they didn't have as many cracks as you, as many tears as you, as many rough edges as you did, but god, they were nowhere near as pure, nowhere near as lovely as you were.
we wish on dandelions, dear, because we trust them. nobody's ever wished on a rose, now have they? no. they're too afraid they'll get pricked, stabbed, betrayed.
so maybe you were the dandelion hidden in a garden of roses. maybe you were the outcast, the misfit, the odd one out. maybe you were just a little bit unloved, and unfairly forgotten.
but what you failed to realize is that i would have gladly picked you over the brightest rose in that silly little garden.