I know a wallflower by two definitions. There are the wallflowers that scale to new heights in their beautiful colours as they wind their way up the brick walls up peoples' houses. They are something easily recognisable in stories that detail the lives on sweet, old grandmothers and their honeysuckle covered cottages in the heart of forests.
In another reality, the harsher one, a wallflower is the epitome of the ignorance of others. A wallflower is someone who tries to raise their voice only to be shouted down by the braver ones. A wallflower is plain with no striking looks, no means of catching anyone of any gender's attention. A wallflower is someone with a talent never to be noticed. A wallflower is usually the one with the most important story. No one wants to listen to the wallflower so they remain in the background, silent tears dribbling down their reddened cheeks as the silent pain rips through their heart.
I know a wallflower and try as she might with the latest fashions, the quirkiest spins on her clothes, the most interesting topics of discussions, the loudest laugh, she's ignored. She presses herself against the brick wall of the old grandmother's house and wraps herself among the intertwining plants and disappears.
I suppose you could call that wallflower me.
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