Before the wind wounded me.

Before my petals broke.

Before my roots withered.

Before the cold silenced me.

I was a flower.

Now I am nothing.

counting sunrise and
sunset, until tomorrow
finally brings you

Everyone tells me
that growth is a process.

And I believe them.
I do.

But I have been waiting,
pleading with whatever god exists
to help me bloom.


I am growing.
but not upwards.
I am twisted and
wretched and ugly.

I am not growing.

I am rotting.

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.