There are worse flowers to be named after.

He told that girl her eyes were beautiful and it made her happier than she's been in a long time. Maybe because the other boy used to tell her all the time, or maybe because everyone stopped noticing.

He collects knives and dated that girl who used to cut herself, but somehow they were happy. She ended it though, maybe because he was as sharp as his knives and she was tired of bleeding, or maybe because she didn't want him to get covered in her blood.

He said that girl was an open flame and everyone else was dripping gas. But then she said that girl was as cold as ice and anyone who touched her would get frostbite. Maybe they both just think that girl is better off alone, but she finds herself unable to pull away. That girl is just too selfish.

That girl has been told she is lots of things. Metaphorically and literally.
She gets told she is fire, ice, winter, snow; she gets told she is Love, of all things. (That girl likes that one best of all.)

She is named after flowers and called after harmful things, with no one remembering why until they're lying on the ground with a bullet in their gut.

That girl is called things she does not believe she fits. Labels and stereotypes that fall at her feet in a heaping pile, waiting for her to don their titles. That girl does not feel identified in the slightest. She is without a species and she feels alone, but there is comfort in that. There is comfort in her loneliness, because she knows though she does not fit, she it still loved.

Somehow that girl has found places to squish into, between the cracks. Maybe that's what makes her happiest of all, or maybe it just makes her smile.

And when she smiles,

it lights up her whole face.