ashamed.
these bruises, cuts,
and wounds
want you to think
that the world
is laughing at you.
pick these petals,
my child.
paste it to your skin
and then see the
sunlight.
do. not. hide.
remember,
all flowers never bloom
with the same beauty.
YOU ARE READING
Burning Home
Poetry[ a poetry collection about grieving and becoming. ] I wish for the day when flowers no longer sink in water. When their eyes gaze not ignominy but proud; even dust can be seen as gold. And exhaustion feels rewarding.
