I Am A Flower Tangled In The Weeds

I live with roses within,
soft golden petals
push past the
canals of my ear,
passionate red buds bloom
along the edges of my hips
and line my inner thighs.

I spit thorns between
two lips
scratching into those that come too near,
who try to buy my bouquet
without realizing
what type of flower I am.

Blushing blossoms shape my face,
while soft stems tangle wildly
away from my scalp.

Dirt builds in the pit of my stomach
a heavy mound
that has grown too dry to water.

I feel the first onset of weeds
gently brush
against my belly button.

And all at once
I feel my petals wither.

I ready myself with a pair of pruning shears,
but I already know
that I cannot snip the weeds
without cutting off a piece
of myself. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

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