As emaciated as the stem of a flower, I endure a harsh life, a forsaken life, a broken life. It’s an elaborate story and I don’t know how to depict it. If you look meticulously at a daisy you will see millions of dainty petals overlapping one another, and that’s exactly like my life – so complex, so extravagant, so destroyed.
I’ve had it harder than most teenagers, living on the abandoned streets and all. People think they understand but they don’t, they really don’t. When a youthful born flower grows, it is admirable, crisp and has everything to live for. That was me. I was once adolescent, an enterprising soul, and above all I was loved, and within seconds it was as if a missile hit the earth, everything went black, pitch black, and, when I opened my humble, fragile eyes, it had all gone. In a flash of lightening I lost it all and my life was no longer worth living.
Now I’m dying inside. I’ve lost my inner beauty like a daisy when the feeble petals begin to fall. I’m vulnerable now, forgotten about. I’ve been left hungry, helpless and heartbroken, and not just left anywhere, I’m living on the side of a putrid, old street. My hair is all ravelled and knotted, my bones are senile, and I smell like sewer. I’m lost down a daunting, dark, deathly lane and I can’t find my way home. Home? Where even is home? No-one wants a loathsome weed like me. I’m a complete wreck, just like my life. My friends don’t want to know me, my family doesn’t care. Anyone would think I was an alien by all the dirty looks I get. My perfect life has turned into a never-ending nightmare. I’m a different person, just like a daisy is a different flower once the petals have gone. I’m no longing the blooming flower, I’m the weed that’s left behind. What did I do to deserve this?
By Lavinia Mottershead
In our Year 9 English class we chose objects to help us write a description of a homeless person and I chose a dying flower.