My poems.//N ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

"June."

"You're not going to make it, you know," a voice said, cutting through the quiet morning.

Mrs. Peterson looked up from her gardening, wiping the sweat from her brow. "What makes you say that, June?"

June shrugged, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "It's just the way things are. You put in all this work, and for what? A few pretty flowers that'll die in the first frost?"

Mrs. Peterson sighed, setting down her trowel. "It's more than that, June. It's about creating something beautiful, something that brings joy."

June turned to face her, arms crossed. "But what if all that beauty just covers up the pain?"

Mrs. Peterson studied her young neighbor, her gaze softening. She knew June's history of self-harm, the silent battles she waged with invisible demons. "Pain is a part of life, dear, but it's what we choose to grow from it that truly matters."

June's eyes searched hers, a glimmer of hope mingling with doubt. "But what if I can't grow anything beautiful, Mrs. P?"