you are not a flower.
you do not rise
from the soil
like some dandy little
spark of life
you are not
overflowing
with green vanity
you just are.
when spring hits
you do not bloom
you do not rise up
from the cold winter
to burst forth into
some spectral showcase
of expressionistical color
you are not some
kaleidoscopic
manifesto
you are not
in constant competition
with the bright roses
around you
you are not
in constant praise
of the sun
your tongue is not
held out before you
drinking in
the ultraviolet rays
you’ve been fed
you do not
think of your roots
as being for
gathering life
into your body
like stranger prayer
you are not a flower.
you bloom inward
you burn circles
in your living room rug
trying to find
unidentified life lying
in the widening crack
of your ceiling
you lick the salt
from your wounds
and watch your hands
swell
you waste days
you boil water into boredom
you’ve torn your roots
from the bureaucratic soil
of bureaucracy
lifted
your two-dimensional legs
from the blueprint
they laid out for you
and you’re not always
so beautiful
you don’t have
the distinct privilege
of a best laid plan
you are something else
seedless
fruitless
without petals
you dance best drunk
and to heavy metal
you are not a flower.
you are the crayon
that walked to the edge
of town
and outside of the lines
and when you bloom
it’ll be in the middle of winter
in the middle of the night
and you will not bloom delicate
you my dear
will bloom fists and fury
—
From Stupid Flowers
