You planted me here,
told me I belonged,
said the sun would care for me,
the rain would not hurt me.
I was meant to grow,
arms open wide —
to catch everything
but what landed in my hands
was heavy.
I drank in shadows,
roots twisted like betrayal,
the soil a silent jury —
silent,
until it was not.
But how was I to know?
The ground beneath me
cracked its mouth open,
begged me to listen,
called me by a name
I never gave it.
And still, I bloomed,
petals like bruised apologies,
a smile cracking under the weight
of an ocean held back
by teeth clenched so tightly
they became the dam.
I was drowning
in air that was never mine —
and they said,
"Breathe deeper."
So I took one last breath,
an inhale to tear the seams,
the big bang in reverse,
an implosion,
stars collapsing back
into the fist of the universe.
It felt like flying,
like the soil set me free.
And for a moment,
I saw the petals fall,
burning,
like they were always meant to.
I was not the seedling.
I was the flame.
