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.