I’m on the cover of the book, at the start of the credits. They adore me, and they never see you: the roots that ground me, the strength that holds me up, the sustenance to my beauty. You put in the effort, but all they see is how I bloom.
Or wither. They study my thorns and they pluck my petals. Even in death, I’ll be something else for them to pick at and treasure.
I know you sometimes wish you had more of the limelight; the credit where it’s more than due. But I’ll shelter you from their adoration.