My poppies are shy, this spring,
under the dirt,
determined to stay in bed as long as possible,
like a troubled teen in that first summer after a heartbreak,
they grip tight to the ground and growl,
“Mother, I don’t like it out there.”
who could blame them?
I am thinking of joining them.
Just growing and never showing myself to anyone,
never running the risk of rejection,
never letting the reflections of the outside fuck with my perception of what it means to be alive.
It all makes sense,
when you see it from a seed’s perspective.
I bleached my sheets,
though they were clean,
freshly placed upon the bed,
then ripped away a moment later by my mania,
an obsession that I have with weaponising my past against my fallen face,
pulling the trigger,
pushing the button,
smashing the galled glass and bathing in the shards.
Like a poppy,
I push through the damned dirt,
staring frosty mornings in the face and smirking as I grow,
going from one state to another,
glowing underneath the soil and water,
until I am ready to face the world.
Though I have survived so much,
with a stony soul,
stretching towards the sun,
I am still so fragile,
so vulnerable to the wind’s cruel gusts.
There is a passionate power from the sky,
that has his eye on me,
and this storm is so relentless.
My sheets are clean,
my petals in pieces,
soul all asunder,
because I’m under the impression that I can’t escape the pain that echoes on my bruised skin.
I am made of mayflowers,
sweet symbol of the spring.
I wait all winter, to watch myself grow,
singing my overture in the shade,
as the sunlight fades away.
My mother walked with great pain,
a crown on thorns in her womb and a pebble in her shoe,
but she carried her flowering child,
until she found the forest and spilled me onto the soil.
Blackbirds call from far away,
as I sleep beneath the thorns,
whispering woods are bewitched and besotted.
I am the Princess of a protected land.
Life just gets so lonely,
don’t you think?
When all you are is a self aware worker bee.
Taking each one of your gifts,
letting them fall off a cliff,
into a blender,
tornado made of torment,
because the world goes round and round,
and you just never notice.
I suppose the night will fall,
as it’s supposed to,
and the sky will never be particularly spectacular,
and I’ll watch Paddington,
under a blanket,
wondering why it’s such a chore,
to manage anything at all.
The roses I would buy,
every weekend of the winter,
remind me that beautiful things can still be born in the harshest conditions.
They are blooming,
just out of reach,
when I’m falling asleep,
somewhere between four and six,
AM or PM,
it takes far longer than it used to.
How do you survive,
trapped in the grim and gray pavement,
making your own way,
towards the sun,
unapologetic and present,
cursed to be alone,
but always alive.
Alone in the city,
seeing all the world has to offer,
but never tempted to stray,
from the light of the sky.
I could learn so much from you.