March 11, 2021
This flower needs a bed. You don't look like a gardener, but you're a fast learner. And you'd do anything to feel my thorns and be the first to dull them. I have planted myself before, packing the soil around me so it felt safe and sturdy-a dirty hug where no one else would comply. The ground I built a home out of was temporary for a flimsy plant like me. I have been uprooted time and time again by bad people disguised as rain. They give me what I need for a while. Then suddenly nothing at all. And I am begging for a drop of anything. These bad people dig their grimy hands into the dirt and touch my roots, rip them out one by one, and toss me on the grass. Or better yet, they'd add me to their bouquet. I'll tell you the truth. I don't want to be in anyone's bouquet. I don't want to be in anyone's flower pot. I don't even want to be in someone's hair. Just bury me in the flower bed outside of your house, pack the soil solid around me, and water me accordingly. I don't ask for a lot, and I won't give too much. But when the time comes, I'll let you press my petals.
R.K.
YOU ARE READING
Holeheart
PoésieI am the forgiver. I am the destroyer. I'm not at fault, but I deserve to be. Poetry and Prose Volume V 2021 DISCONTINUED
