They told me to grow
like it was clean,
like something reaching toward the sun
with classical music playing behind it.
But I grew heavier first—
around the gut,
around the eyes,
around the heart, bent from carrying
too much.
I grew older
in dark bars and bad sleep,
in slow horses and doctor visits,
in mornings that came too fast with
cheap light,
and nights that wouldn’t end.
Nobody talks about that kind of growing—
the kind that settles in your spine,
that slows your breath,
that makes you pause halfway up the stairs
and call it “thinking.”
They say grow
like it’s always upward,
like it’s clean lines and green leaves.
Ripe fruit all the time.
But I spent years making hard wine from
rotten grapes.
I’ve seen gardens—
real ones—
hands in the dirt,
knees shot,
backs bent like questions
nobody answers.
Nothing comes up
without something breaking open.
I am that seed that germinated in bad soil.
I grew out of some things
and into others—
quieter rooms,
slower mornings,
a different kind of hunger.
Less fire, maybe,
but something steadier—
a low burn
that doesn’t take the whole world with it.
So if I’ve grown,
it wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t straight.
It reached too far, too often.
It just kept going—
through the weight,
through the years,
through the dirt.
And maybe that’s it.
Maybe growing
is just staying long enough
to change
without noticing
what it cost.