I watched the beautiful women, asked to dance. Dedicated beautiful love songs, of pining, want, and need. Why, I asked myself, not me? I went to a party dressed in floor-length, black velvet and rhinestones, Cinderella in this story, but no Prince Charming ever came. My boyfriend stayed home, ashamed of me, ashamed of himself, ashamed of love.
Who will sing “Wildflower” just for me? I imagine lots of sweeping, trembling violins, reaching for an impossible key that wants to break and shatter and dance just a little.
The last dance is not for me. I am here to watch, to tell their love stories and review their love songs. And lock up.
But I am wildflower. Not her.