They tell us that we should know who we want to be,
but how can we do that when we don't even know who we are?
They tell us not to look directly into the sun,
so we never bother to look into the mirror.
They tell us to never step on a sidewalk crack because we shouldn't want to break our mother's back,
but we do anyways as if we have something against her.
They tell us not to be sad,
but how can we ignore the feeling they give us?
They tell us they love us,
but how can we believe that if they never touch us?
They tell us to fear death,
but why should we?

Last week, I had the strangest dream.
Where everything was it exactly how it seemed,
there was a version of me,
that I've never seen.
And you were there,
with those cigarettes you always smoke.
We danced, the way words do on your tongue.
It hit me just like a bullet from a gun,
I loved you in that moment.
Then you got pulled away, as if you were light as air.
You left me as if it was the easiest thing you've done,
And you were gone, just like that.
Good thing it was just a dream.

When she was young, she'd go for long walks. On the side of the cracked road where grass grows, she walked and smiled because of the way the sun was a blanket on her arms and how the trees danced with the wind. She would never tell anyone where she would go, she just went. And she would stare up into the sun and would cry because it shone so bright. She loved the clouds and the way they changed because of the same wind that made the trees dance.
She use to believe in magic, she believed she was capable of flying. Bella would run up to the tallest points of the hills and spread her arms like wings and lift her chin to meet the sky and she'd spin. She'd spin as fast as she could with her mouth open in a smile and eyes staring up at the sun until she fell into the soft meadow of grass. She would lay there under her favorite tree. She would pretend her favorite tree was the Giving Tree from Shel Silverstein's book, but she never asked anything of the tree. She would just sit and talk with the tree and hug it, she would tell the tree how much she loved it. She would tell the tree all her secrets and of the cute boy in her class and the tree listened because no one else would.

I am not a Daisy. I am a human.
Why I am not a Daisy?
I cannot sprout through concrete to meet the sun,
I cannot gather dew drops on my petals.
I don’t have petals, instead I have arms.

Arms can be called petals.
I don’t see why not.
My petals are scarred.
They hold the history of my hidden past.
Opposite of beautiful,
Opposite of innocent.

I went to my friend’s
and she’d say, “Daisy, Do you like Disneyland?”
“Yes I do. I haven’t been since I was five.”
She tells me that we’re going to go to Disneyland.
That we’re going to be five years old again.
So we go to Disneyland.

We ride the rides,
We watch the little boys and girls laugh and play,
They don’t seem to notice my petals.
They don’t seem to know of the twisted ways they can think.
They don’t seem to know that one day, they’ll have to pay taxes
and work a job.

Nothing is the same as when I was five years old.
Now I know.
It is no longer the happiest place on Earth,
because I am not. A Daisy.

She moves swiftly to the absence of sound.
The limitations are nonexistent.
Like a ragdoll, she throws her weight around,
Her mind is anywhere but the present.

Wind brushes her skin, pushing her white dress.
With each step there is progress in her life,
Leaving behind her silly, little mess.
Once dancing, she forgets the sharpened knife.

Her mind is full of curiosities,
Her heart is rallying against her ribs.
She is elegant with monstrosities,
She has left the island of useless squibbs.

She patiently dances her life away,
For there is no longer the need to pray.

There’s a different world, up on this hill.
Below is a field of broken dreams,
that gives you an unnerving chill.
A place where the branches are beams
where children dangle from their feet.
A place where young lovers meet.

My parents,
They don't understand.
The fact that I sit with broken heart strings,
With no one but myself.
I look around and see the skies falling,
The daisies crumbling.
And with school creeping up behind me,
I know who I'll be once the first day begins.
Nothing.
Because don't you see mom and dad,
That's all I'll ever be because I do not wish to be more.
The moment I become more I have to be better than I was,
I have to continue to be better than myself.
I have to transform and fall into a society that does not accept me.
I do not wish to be more,
I simply wish to have a mended heart.
So I can love once more.