Anaisa Castillo, The Scroll, Staff Writer

If there was to be an expression composed of words, of a meaning, that indicatively expressed what perfection was to be. Then it would be deemed untrue. For my once fixated view of presumed perfection had never been so delinquently foolish to me. After seeing this evermore pink sight of perfection, it was with indubitability that I knew this perfection would never alter. They – the most beautiful shade of pink – not once did I let them think otherwise. For all their uncertainties, it was my priority to embed confidence. They spun ever so gracefully, unblemished they were in every way. They…they’re…is all that was ever spoken about within my vast mind. “They seem to be unaware of their significance”, “They’re beyond compare”. For they, and only they, were the liveliest rose amongst the rest. Witnessing the rest of the roses within the bouquet attempt to become a shard of resemblance, was quite amusing to my eye. For it really only showed that the pink perfection was irreplaceable. Though in times filled with nothing but boundless agony, a petal often fell from the “perfection”, and if not one, then many. These losses, becoming profit to others. Now, perhaps I forgot to add one minor yet necessary adjustment to their given name of “perfection”. “Perfect imperfection”. Yes, they had imperfections. Yes, I was aware of this; but I neglected the thought to care. You see, anyone without access to my thoughts and deep sense of admiration would never understand as to why this “perfect imperfection” was nothing like the rest. It can not be said enough, it can’t be emphasized enough. They are, and always will be the far greater rose. But..with how I express my tremendous admiration for the spinning rose, you’d assume I was to be in love. Which without doubt, I was. You’d also suppose I had proposed an offer, one that goes beyond the status of “just friends”. No. Quite often, I find myself trapped within the same four perpetual walls of my room, my tub filled with more sorrow than water itself, each droplet consisting of constant heartache. Walking with the absence of purpose, coexisting only due to the making of one vital promise. Not just to the “perfect imperfection” but myself. Perhaps, if I had told the vibrant “perfect imperfection” about my ever growing adoration, I would never have had to endure a sight of which they were no longer the shade of pink. But crimson. Covered in crimson. As if painted, or at least that’s what I had hoped for it to be, nothing but a mere misconception. But they never arose, the rose…never arose. For it stayed completely wilted, motionless, no longer spinning in unblemished adequacy. So now, here I reside. In my own bouquet, with no rose to claim as my floret. Here I reside, knowing the once blooming “perfect imperfection” will cease to do so again…in a more saddened manner, ceasing to bloom with me. Enervated; I now reside within a world that fails to possess a distinct pink vibrancy that rings “perfect imperfection”. For my promise to them, “I will always be here”. Even if it inquires that I bloom alone.