I used to be a girl
who was so afraid of change
that she buried her roots
and fought off deforestation
with the tangled branches of adolescence
and the sharpened buds of potential
I’m what society calls a ‘woman’ now
who is so paralyzed by static
that she clings to the moisture
of the waves with the power
to uproot anything of permanence
and shock the warmth with a bitter cold
We’re told to spring forward
with our trunks full of circles
but I find myself falling backward
into a pile of leaves so dry
they’d burn me in an instant
Should I allow the water
to steal from me
and disperse what my sap has to offer?
Or is it best
to supplement my soil with cement
and stand because someone is always listening?
My skin can only handle so many splinters.