Wild Flower

she listens to the stark voice crash the glass of silence with aching frustration, hearing: “Pardon me sir, our flower is broken. We overflow her pot with water and sit her in the sunlight. She is beautiful, yes, admirably attractive. But she is always sulking.”

she listens, painfully ashamed. her roots swell, her stem bleeds tears. life is given to her! handed to her! Sanitized. Manicured. handed to her! and she sits so pretty, so so pretty, upon that cold countertop in a house where warmth is made by metal vents. she is admired every day.

with all this food, she wonders, why am i still so hungry?
she looks longingly at the weeds whose feet aren’t stuffed into pots and whose dreams aren’t stopped by ceiling fans. Can you really blame her for her heavy head when her roots have nowhere to run?


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