WildFlower 

When I die, I want to be covered in flowers— 

suffocate—spin around and around and around in heaven or hell or somewhere in between, between fragrant flashes of red blue yellow purple white lavender 

But if you leave before me, I will not bring flowers to your grave. 

Let me tear them apart 

scatter petals into wind 

stomp and stomp and stomp into dirt, 

let them wither, let them rot 

because what is the point of flowers without your eyes to see them 

I have heard the way you speak to yourself. 

I have felt the weight of every cruel word you spit at the mirror. 

I have seen the way your hands shake when you think no one is looking, the way your shoulders carve inwards like your body is folding in on itself— like you want to disappear—float away like the seed of a dandelion 

You are still a flower 

But you are the singular best flower that has sprouted in my garden. 

So how dare you call yourself a weed? 

Your voice sounds like the nectar of blossoms, 

hands soft as petals, 

yet you tear at yourself like thorns are all you have. 

I have memorized you. 

The way light catches your hair at golden hour, 

the way your laughter shakes the walls of my ribs. 

You think you are hideous, grotesque, unworthy— 

but if you are a garden, I am your sun. 

And if you were to go, 

every flower in my world would die. 

So stay. 

Even if it hurts. 

Even if you don’t believe me. 

Even if you can’t see the beauty in yourself, 

let me be the fool who sees it for you. 

Open your petals, graze the ground, and reach the winds 

Breathe

Believe

Bloom