Weed and roses

They say I have a problem.

Maybe I do.

Not just one — a whole damn plateful.

But no one ever stops to ask where it came from.

They warn me I’ll end up alone —

as if I don’t already feel it,

as if loneliness isn’t already a second skin.

I don’t want to hurt anyone.

I want to be the sun —

but even a weed in a perfect garden can cast a shadow.

Suddenly, it’s not so bright anymore.

They talk, they stare, they judge —

But when I’m on my knees.

I’m left with silence.

I try to outrun my shadow.

They say running is healthy —

but never mention how exhausting it is

to keep sprinting from yourself.

Maybe I am the weed.

Growing tall, maybe even pretty to some —

but never the rose.

Just something to be pulled.

They want a perfect garden.

I get it.

You can see it in their eyes —

even they eyes that looks so much like yours —

that silent wish: if only she wasn’t like this.

So they dig, and dig,

to find the root of the problem.

And all they find

is you.

You can’t even rip it out yourself.

Your hands — too gentle, too tired,

or just not enough.

So you bury it.

Hide the pain,

the fears,

the shadow.

Deep.

Maybe you can run.

But you can’t hide.

And no salty water — can make it bloom.

Can make you bloom

like they want you to.

But you’re still here.

And maybe that’s the start of something,

not too sure of what yet.