Four years ago
I sympathized with the daisies I'd ruined.
If I'd really been in love
I would have wished for a garden of dandelions
instead of plucking the petals clean from their roots,
destroying every single dream I ever had.
But what's there to mourn if the petals were meant to be ashes -
scattered, grey, deceiving,
burning like flimsy paper for the "love" I once had.
What's there to mourn if the flowers grew back into prickly thorns?
Picking at me relentlessly, refusing to become roses.
What's there to mourn if I never had a garden in the first place?
I still think about it four years later
because the roots never grew back strong enough -
I don't know where to plant myself.
The soil I stand on is no longer mine, after all.
It's not mine if I've let other people make it for me
Because I couldn't do it myself.
I'm here now, wondering if I'm destined for a garden or a wasteland.
Wondering why I haven't noticed the comets before
Flying, exploding into stardust. Landing among the stars.
I've looked down so much that I've never really seen
the sky before, never seen the freedom it could hold.
The sky's the limit, I've been told.
But, for me, it's just a starting point.
What's there to mourn if the paper petals were created to burn,
allowing me to notice the stars instead?
What's there to mourn if the paper petals were made of stardust all along
unfit to live in a place where they weren't to exist?
