the petals hold together so tightly; blankets upon blankets rolled into one comfortable mass, a perfect orb. but when it’s time to bloom comes a chaotic rush, overflowing layers pour out from the midst in imperfect shades of white, tainted shades of white. quite naturally you reach out to brush your fingertips across the flower’s surface. its ruffles meet you half-way, heavenly redolent waves, and you can’t help but think to yourself, “what a strangely abrasive name for a blossom of the opposite nature.”