I am lost in my own germination.
I miss the innocence of adolescence,
I miss the days of being a seed.
Nostalgia stemming from maltreatment,
roots of disdain running deeper and deeper
as they absorb the negativity of my surroundings.
The sadistic nature of being
has instilled terror in my heart, a terror of the future—
for I’m not ready for my contempt of existence to flower.
I preferred being a seed.
As I blossom, I grow consumed by feelings of self-doubt,
tears falling, like petals in the springtime,
Will I survive the winter?
I preferred being a seed.
The strong winds of life rip me up by the roots.
I am slowly wilting and withering away as days pass,
unaware of when I will be trampled underfoot.
I remember the days of being a seed.
For remaining a seed would have been easier
than blossoming in a world slowly and aggressively plucking my petals.
I am nearly barren.