be important to be listened to
like somehow if rose petals dried away
while you spoke to them, then
you were never meant to be heard.
In the last few years I’ve learned to speak
to scream till my voice shattered barriers
between my father who never listened
and my mother who would never understand,
though she said she would,
as she plucked the weeds from rosebushes.
I used to think I was one of those weeds.
Maybe I am.
But that doesn’t change the fact
that when roses die
I can create new ones in their place
because I know that I’m important now.
To some extent.
If I can push myself through hospital doors
and keep the veins in my arms from bursting,
then I sure as hell can push through
the borderlines of importance, telling you,
"I’m here. No matter what.
And I know better than to believe myself a weed.
I can believe myself bigger.
I can reach out and touch every flower
that ever lived.
I am so much more than your garden can fathom.”