You praise the petals — bright, unbruised,
not knowing how the roots once lost their way.
I showed you one, still tangled,
and you turned your gaze — ashamed for me.

Must I always blossom,
always shine like stained-glass grace?
Is the wilt too wild,
too human for your taste?

I crave the chaos —
a glass too full, a night too loud,
a choice I’ll hate come morning,
but one that made me real somehow.

Time slips like wine down linen,
and sorrow is too thick to sip alone.
I want to dance where halos melt,
where saints forget their tone.

Let me live,
not just in your curated light —
but in the aching, messy dusk
where even rebels feel alright.

Will that steal my petals’ worth?
Or prove they bloomed despite the dirt?

it's April in the lilac's sweetness
I need a break from this modern mind,
from  the chronic, endemic discourse of crisis
I am looking: this creature, the sea, is herself
the wind shouts without words
echoes pass through the gate of tears,
weapons of mass production
take my hands and do something with them
layers of silence or the tango of closeness,
the thought of an uniterrupted line