The bouquet of fresh flowers lying in my trashcan looked so pretty, a many-hued mélange.
The red rose from the ice cream vendor, daffodil from the police officer, pink daisy from the little kid who lived down the street. Males have always loved me with such fervor. I cannot even recall most of them. In all candor, I would rather not. My beauty has always been a curse. Immortality even more so.
Centuries ago, my face launched a thousand ships and claimed even more lives. I am glad that nowadays men offer only flowers. I cannot claim more lives.
Word Count: 99
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Image credit: https://www.absolutearts.com/painting_oil/artemis__artists_association-bouquet_with_yellow_lilies-1321809197.html
Would love to hear your thoughts on this one! 🙂