I wonder what a wild rose feels
when carefully planted among gardenias.
Sometimes I feel as though a gardener comes through
and prunes the bits and pieces,
the wildness out of me.
I was not meant to sit
perfectly manicured in a vase.
My vines are wild and twisting,
traveling among the ivy,
circling into the peat.
What a strange thing—
to have to muscle my way in
among the lilacs and the posies,
among the shade lovers and
the ones that need direct sun.
And yet, here I am,
still fighting for a spot on this earth
even when nothing makes sense.
Be smaller, I am told.
Be quieter.
Take up less room.
Why do your petals have to be so… big?
I used to droop about this.
Now I realize
there is no use in drooping
when you are on a battlefield—
even if that battlefield smells sweet,
and holds thorns
like we hold babies.
