My flower is not as delicate as she seems. She is cynical, cruel, hard like her husband.
But my flower does not shatter me like glass, not like he does. No, she tortures me, slowly and without reprieve, stake pressed slowly into my heart, so unhurriedly it could almost pass for a loving caress.
But not quite.
My flower has incredible influence, beyond that of anyone- man or woman- I've ever met.
My flower's lips brought about countless parties, an opulent and outlandish mansion, a criminal from an honest man.
With a single word, my flower can reduce me to nothing, nothing but a shadow in the night, forced to hide like a coward in the bushes.