I am a flower.
I do not know what I am made of.
But I am not delicate,
Or frail.
I am the type of flower that would adorn a warrior’s room,
Unyielding, but not undamaged.
A flower that has a seen many a battle, but remains unbroken.
A reminder to the warrior, that you can be damaged but still be beautiful.
I may be made out of metal, or glass, or cells.
I am not sure, as I cannot see myself the way others see me.
I do not always feel beautiful, sometimes I feel choked.
Like there are weeds crawling up my stem and leaves,
Trying to find a way to kill me via anoxia.
I feel damaged and sick.
I am told that I am strong, but I do not always feel that way.
I am told I should not have survived as I have.
I am told that life is a gift that I am a part of.
I feel bruised and battered.
Sometimes I think that I shall not live through another day.
Sometimes I think that the warrior should throw me out, because I do not deserve to adorn their room, that I am not a good representation for their beliefs and battles.
Sometimes the warrior agrees.
I have been thrown around a room,
I have been chucked to the floor and stepped on,
I have had a blade against me.
But the warriors always seems to change their mind, finding something in me worth keeping,
I do not understand why they do not leave me to rot, rust or break.
I am a flower.
I do not know what I am made of.
At times I welcome the weeds to suffocate me.
At times I feel as beautiful as others see me.
Sometimes I get a glimpse of myself and of why I should have the right to adorn warriors of great battles rooms.
Other times I feel like I deserve to be thrown about.
I am a flower.
One that craves the rain to sink into me and wash out the impurities of life.
I am a flower.
I do not know what I am made of.
I am as battered on the inside, as I am on the outside.
Sometimes I feel worthy of life, sometimes I don’t.
But there are things I am certain of,
I am not delicate,
And I am not frail.
Unyielding, but not undamaged.
And that makes me feel like I can survive.
