Many would call me rotten,

A broken thing meant to be beautiful,

To be obedient to the standard you have set for me.

I am not what you want me to be

I am a wilted flower in a world of roses

I am destined to be poisoned

I am the antithesis of what I am supposed to appear as

I am not beautiful and delicate

I am wilted, my petals to do not face the sun.

To you I am rotting

But I am not rotten

As I smell of the sun on a cold autumn day

And the forest after rain

And coffee on a slow morning

And candy on Halloween

I am not rotting

I am unique.