the world breeds wildflowers with
thorns so abundant; you wonder
if the rose vines crept towards
you out of hospitality or to
suffocate you. but there is a
third option; they’re phototropic,
they grow towards the brightest
source of light they know. //
you simmer yourself into
gusts of winds that wanting
to dissipate the hurt over
remote lands, as to not hurt
anyone else the way the world
hurt you.
but still; you kindle the wildfires,
suffering is the catalyst of art,
and you bleed at will.
