Someone once asked me what type of flower I would be,
And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a question that choked me.
I thought of my petals, and how they've spent so much time closed tight,
A result of everything that's served me fright.
I thought of the times they've been forcefully ripped open when never allowed access,
And for so long I carried around poison and blackness.
I thought of the roots that grow beneath my stem,
And the times they've so often been burrowed in mayhem.
I thought of the bulb that gave me life,
And how many times my back was where she buried a knife.
I thought of the soil that was meant to be home,
And how it was so often overcast in a dark, rainy dome.
I thought of all of the gardens I tried to belong in,
And how often I tried to wear an artificial skin.

Then I began to think of the sunshine and how it's something I wish to atone,
Even if it was something I had to do alone.

So often by the hand of others and myself,
I was trapped within an unrealistic *** on the shelf.

I've spent so much time being defiled and profiled,
It's now that I realize,

I was meant,


To be wild.

How long could you observe water being boiled? To the point of evaporation-disappearing into the air in which you breathe?

How much patience do you have, to watch crayons left on the sidewalk by children? Until they melt in to runny, colorful majesty that quickly fills the space of a concrete square?

For how long could you watch aluminum cans be crushed,
         and crushed,
                         and crushed,
                                         and crushed?

After a while these things become tedious, watching things constantly be destroyed. There was a time when it could have been sad making, but like any constant, it desensitizes.

But,
what if it hurt these things, left to amount to nothing at the hands of forgetful cooks, careless children, and someone eager to exchange a pound of aluminum for 85 cents.

What if they knew all along that even if they weren't necessarily meant to face destruction, that they were products that were expectedly more prone?



What about people?


What about,






me?

Please take me to the ball, where I can gaze upon masks of all colors,
Lay eyes on decorated representations of what every guest wishes to truly be on the outside,
View every gem and thread lined cover for things kept secret.

Please take me to the back room, where I can gaze upon what you conceal underneath,
Lay eyes upon the things you wish to hide-not always with deceptive intention,
View every psychological scar in which you fear exposure.

Please sit with me while I tell you why both of these are beautiful, even if occasionally (or frequently) painful.

Please listen while I account for the fact that what is so often times covered is not always something to be just that; for a lifetime of oppression against an unarmored face and a bare heart so often attract wounds.

Please continue to be attentive while I put into words the fact that though they hold the ability to be seen as insincere, these masks reflect the true desire of what one wishes to put out in to the world, though yet unachieved just below; for a lifetime of oppression against an unarmored face and a bare heart so often attract wounds.

Please grip silk ribbon now,
and lace up, or undo.
For if you wish to discuss the action of either, when exhausted of secretion or vulnerability,
I will be here,
in this back room.

What do yo do when the only place you've
felt safe,
been loved,
learned warmth,

belonged

is taken?

What do you do when it has been
torn apart,
burned down,
ripped away

through no action but your own?

How do you
heal,
move on,
forget,

let go?

How am I supposed to


forgive myself?


-It's not even noon and I am drowning in the pain of losing you.

When you touch me
it's like I

slide

out of my body
and back into

the universe.

-it's 12:28 a.m. and I miss you

I didn't think at our age
people still got those,
      
                                      butterflies.

At least not the way we all did in our school age.

Those 'I can't wait to see you' stomach gymnastics,
Those
                                       sweaty, shaking palms.


But if it weren't for the fact that I've lived more life and learned of more importance,

well, I'd think I was 15 again.