Would a rose by any other name be as sweet?
Would a rose gifted by another sweep me off of my feet?
Would the fragrant scent make me so softly weak?

Never have I ever been one for flowers,
Their allure held but for a few hours,
A vibrant life for temporary display,
Before they drop all their petals, wilt away.

A perspective from closed eyes open to see,
Finding sincerity in the twelve before me,
Watching their flirtatious shadows dance
As the petals sway to the breezes romance

Studying their intricate details,
Have I never read the story each rose tells?
Sewn into the earth, cared for, tended to,
Their history of love, unfolding in bloom
Like books unfurling pages, one by one
Each petal a testament to the tenderest love

I imagine his eyes, the warmth of his heart
For a moment their stories and my own were of one part.
Gifted with the purest intentions, a hopeful beginning
From those hands seeking love, never-ending

So would a rose by any other name be as sweet?
If from the hands of the one who gifted them to me.

Drink and love and laugh,
talk and cry and eat your fill
do as you will, but be kind
embrace the light unbending,
for we never know when life is ending

can i not bore into my temple
and remove the bitterest parts
of myself when they scream?

am i forced to witness their decaying
motions as they spoil and rot
every good thing I feel?

i say no, because i am worth more
than unspoken disdain, disgust,
unpleasantry.

fingertips to burdened lips,
I unsilence them and free the raindrop
words that ache to revive the good
behind the hurt.

paintbrush smattered in an ugly
paint of purely human creation,
no divinity in its intent, paints
a picture of a me that doesn't like me.

but it washes off in realization
that water is love is truth.
and that truth, beyond me
and in me, is good.

Should I be rendered deaf and blind again,
For it would be too late.
I came, I saw, I conquered;
Of the grapes of wrath,
I fermented victory.

it didn't sneak up on me
i fell slowly
with every act of kindness where she'd go out of her way for

i could lean on her.

she loves me unashamedly.
but i was afraid and stuck in quicksand
but she pulled me up
again and again
no matter how many times i mistook the sinking death trap as ground

our mutual sacrifice for eachother
out of concern, out of care, just because;
is what love is

To the boy I loaned a pencil,
You never had to give it back.

I know this one was fancy,
New eraser, full of lead.
But I had another one just like it
Which you could have had instead.

Though I always used the same one,
I carried two of every kind.
To make sure you had options
Of lead in every size.

You always chose the worst ones,
Even after I'd protest.
You said that you'd just lose it.
But I knew I'd have no regrets.

It was your right to lose them.
Pencils of your very own.
I had plenty more there in my bag,
And many more at home.

But you never took the nice ones.
So I collected from the floor
Any pencil so mistreated
That you would call it yours.

And every day I offered
Without needing to be asked.
Because the importance of a pencil
Was not just science class.

I won't give up on kindness because you exist,
and it is your kindness that my heart learned
that I can be kind to myself, too,
and by the consequence of your kindness,
I won't give up on you.

I hope these words reach you once more
as I relearn your kindness
all over again.