water them

when they give me my flowers

By R.C. TaylorPublished 2 years ago • 1 min read

to feed the beast of perfection

I cut loose scraps of myself

using glass shard words

other people said that

became my own inner voice

and when they finally

gave me my flowers

I could not water them

in the desert I had become.

but like all deserts,

it cannot always be dry

and flash rain will come

the moment I remember

that I have a choice

to water them or not,

for the power to terraform

my desert into an oasis

has always been within me.

I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.

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