You once told me that flowers looked a little more like me when your mother bought you a bouquet of sun-kissed shades of dandelion. You told me I looked like the flowers on the vases you hide beneath your sweatshirts or the flowers you kept on your journal, afraid that time would slowly make you forget who you were when someone had told you that you looked like flowers, too.
You told me that I looked like the flowers you have carved on your skin when it was fall because you were afraid of losing me when your soil never held me in the first place. You told me I looked like flowers and I looked like the flowers you draw at the back of your Mathematics book, thinking if flowers really looked like me or if they only do because i never left you when everyone else did.
Maybe you just told me I look like flowers, when I really don't, to prove yourself that you can be a breathing garden when they tell you you are an empty patch of soil. Maybe I never looked like one, or maybe you never looked at me when you told me I was blooming.