Write From the POV of A Bridal Bouquet.
Something isn't right. I feel eyes on me. Staring. Just about everyone is smiling. As beautiful as I feel, and as lovely as I am, I am suffocating. I'm dying. I am being choked by clammy, nervous hands. I feel the walls closing in on me. It's very crowded. There's no room to move.
I am being handed to another woman. Her hands are drier, but they cling too tightly around me. Soon, I am handed back to the other woman. Her grasp around me is lethal. My stems are crushed. Still, I am beautiful.
I have been laid upon a white table. I am able to rest. It's noisy, but I don't mind. Soon, I am grabbed and held by the same woman. This time, her hands are no longer clammy. She holds me loosely.
Suddenly, I'm being choked. I am shoved downward, her grip on me a vice. Then, I am being thrust upward. I feel the choking hand release me. I fly high. I'm free! I hear screams. Women are screaming and hands reach for me. I sail downward, and though I am free, I know I will meet my demise. I land on the cold parquet floor with a plop. I feel looser, the tightness of my flowers ebbing away. Just before I feel peace, I am grabbed by numerous hands. I am torn, and my flowers lose precious petals. The ribbon holding us has come undone. I am ripped apart. Soon, though, I am squashed together by a new set of hands. The ribbon is forced around me once again.
I am dying.
I now rest on a forgotten shelf. I am dusty. I am decayed. I am dead.
But still, I am beautiful.