The young flowers bloom
But I shrivel in the heat—
Scorching blossoms,
Not from the rays of the sun,
But from the untrust that
Burns under my skin.
Will I be anything but a small
Seed? A piece of grass?
An acorn chewed, buried, and
Forgotten?
It's okay if I'm never a watered
Bouquet—happiest in a vase—
Unaware of death claiming
Cut stems.