My garden is only full of Black Nightshades,

It is what I am made of.

A flower that is considered a ****,

An invasive species.

Am I invasive in the way I talk,

Loud and commanding?

Am I invasive in the way I care,

About all species?

Tell me, 

Am I poisonous to the tongue?

Is the way I scream and sob about the world's odious ways invasive?

Would you like me to be voiceless?

Tell me,

Are the way my words hit your skin prickled with hatred and toxicity?

Is the way my tear hits the soil a sign that I’m delicate?

Tell me,

Do the ways that my stems reach for the sun seem invasive? 

That I crowd and push,

The way my garden stands tall.

On guard and at attention.

Tell me,

When the poison drips down your throat,

Is it as invasive as your thoughts?

As invasive as you thought I would be?

Is my garden not your idea of picture-perfect?

Cut clean and full of color,

Bright blues and pinks?

Is the way I present myself poisonous,

Is it invasive to your existence?

My garden is not here to be pretty,

It is here to be hurt but not hardened by the world.

The changing season and brutal weather will not sway my roots.

I’m here to grow, 

Even if it seems invasive.