i am so sick of trampled meadows.
of feeling like I've trampled the meadow.
of all these dead daisies
and of marigolds that wilt at my feet
i am so sick of thorns.
of being the thorn in everyone's side.
of feeling like all I can do
is either prick or be pricked.
draw blood or bleed myself.
will there ever be a day
when my petals aren't plucked?
when I'm not stepping on my own stem?
when I can just be a flower?
when I can just be?
when can I just be?
YOU ARE READING
wilting roses
PoetryAnother collection of (bad) poems. *tw: mentions of sexual assault, drug use, drinking, suicidal ideation and self harm* -a collection of poems that document my experiences with my mental health throughout high school. a warning: i had a few undiagn...
