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Tag: trees

I will not be beautiful for someone else

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I am tired. I am broken violets in a vase that hasn’t had water for days. I am cut at the base of a very long stem –¬†growing bent under the weight of others’ sins carried on the wind. How do you grow up when you cannot see the sun? Cannot feel the heat on your leaves? No warmth in the day? No moon at night?

I die. My roots growing further into the earth trying to bury my alive. When I am hiding perhaps I’ll survive. Only dirt is seen by the naked eye, but I…

I grow silently beneath the soil. I wrap all my limbs around rocks that told me I couldn’t and hold them so tightly. They anchor me. I tell them my secrets hoping my stories will bounce back with an echo of truth I don’t already know. I am only a seed below.

Scattered. Like dust. Shattered. Like someone just put me here and expected me to be something beautiful. Something for show. A feature in a building they call home.

It’s a house made of aging bones and hollow noises and records that play on too-loud speakers because why fix a thing that isn’t completely broken? Yet. It’s only a little out of shape. The music is still in time. In time.

In time. My heart no longer beats in time to the right rhythm. Broken violets in a thirsty vase asking for questions to be asked. Why keep them if they’re dead? What if they rot?

I’m not saying they’re entirely ineffectual – I’m a conversation starter at least. What will they speak about with a flowerless mantlepiece? Will they even miss me?

Not planted or picked for display. Just somewhere. A seed. Growing my own way and looking for the light.

To this end

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This deep breath, this gasp
this drawing in.
This sin, this giving in
this transgressing.
This rage, this page
this release, this peace
almost. This wreck,
this sinking, this drinking
drowning sorrows till sleep.
This weeping child,
this hard heart, these eyes
these tears, these years
lost in fears like running wild
through forest. These trees,
these branches, this breaking.
This infallible ache, this waking
to check for monsters under the bed.
This dread, this darkness,
this death. This deep breath,
this exhale, this end.

—–

This is the 11th poem in a series of 30. Read the others:

Day 1: Tighter than fear

Day 2: Do not wish me to be true

Day 3: Listen

Day 4: What to ask after the wreckage

Day 5: Even though they die

Day 6: Where will you go when the rain comes?

Day 7: You cannot do much for the dead

Day 8: Keep it together

Day 9: Wrecking the very gods we built | On statues and stories

Day 10: Become giants from the ground