my parents raised me as a sheltered flower. i believed them until i woke up from the dream they have dreamed for me. as this world witnessed and numbered my days, i perceived what it saw and stood guard to its counting. i also heard its whispers growing louder with my realizations. not a flower, an herb, an herb. i learned to listen to it. one time, when it thought i was closing my ears, it murmured. not a flower, not an herb, a weed, weed. i cried a silent sigh. for i have understood its whispers, have even come to accept them. but the murmurs. the murmurs struck truth, shook trust. the murmurs told me about me.