Five jars.
Five jars of dead flowers.  
Every one ,
a present to me,
one for each thing my mother feels guilty for.
Leaving me.
Having me.
Ignoring me.  
Forcing me to do things I don’t want to do.
Jealousy of my success.  
As each petal withers and wilts,
I can read the pain in her face.
She didn’t want me.  
I'm not sure if she even does now.
My body a stem she wants to cut from her life.
But, I grew my thorns to keep that from happening
No body wants to touch a prickly rose.  
Thats the problem,
No body wants to get close to me.  
I bleed dirt.
I’m like a punching sack full of mulch,
bulky and unnecessary.
Despite my lack of water and love,
I’m still standing tall.  
Things are getting better
The sun shines a lot more for me these days.
Now I finally know what it means to enjoy it,
as a daisy in the field
small and innocent once more.