somewhere along the line,
my name became
springtime.
my name became
cherry blossoms
and
delicate blue eggshells
and
a baby bunny, soft as velvet.
and yet
mothers and daughters know
that I've never been gentle.
that I'm not pink petals and green shoots
but instead red mud and black blood
darker and richer than you thought possible.
that I'm the coarse regrowth,
the second coming.
where death is not a distant memory,
it is thick in the air
cloying on your tongue.
farmers and laborers know
that I've never been gentle.
that I take as good as I give—
in a fit of anger, greedy.
that where there is life there must be death.
my soft underbelly contains hidden barbs.
at least I wasn't named summer
with fine corn silk hair
and a regularity that borders on cockiness.
her fat veins and her easy pleasures
rise to the surface of her skin,
her body bloated with warmth and comfort.
at least I'm still alive
with rocks under my nails and
sharp eyes that ache in the sun and run when it rains.
I am caked with grit up to my elbows
from raking the surface of the earth.
my body is sore from searching and longing and delivering.
I've never been gentle.
I'm not the sweet tweet of a fledgling
but instead the scream of labour
I'm the arm extending from a seed
pushing through ****
reaching for the unknown.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 8:03 PM UTC