Mother Dearest

To the rose you glazed your eyes upon, you deceived yourself into a selfish illusion and abandoned it when all the petals fell.

I am no longer the seed you buried underneath the soft soil with your caressing hands.
I am no longer the seed you need to water every hour on end.
I am no longer the seed shielded inside of the cracked clay pot you’ve built.

Can’t you see?

Open your eyes.

I am that very seed
that has sprouted from the same soil you planted me in.
I am that very seed
that has grown a centimeter taller–a rose you deemed always innocent and fragile.

But can’t you see? I am no longer the seed you once knew.

I am a rose with prickly thorns and wilted petals.

I am handled and thrown by the hands of people you never knew outside of your window sill. You wondered why some of my petals are bruised and browned in places I was unable to answer. My healthiest petals were forcefully plucked. My stem was mercilessly snapped into pieces.

I mourned the pain on gloomy cloudy days, but all you’re able to hear is silence.
When the dark clouds rumbled and the rain bulleted onto the surface of the window sill, you drown me in questions:

why I am like this
how I wasn’t like the prettiest flower you remembered

I don’t fit your criteria of perfect.

You are
afraid…worrisome…and selfish

Can’t you see?
Open your eyes.

There are places and people veiled in the darkness where light can’t reach. This is where beyond the parameter of home, you know less to nothing.

The sun dulls through our glass window. My wilted petals that were blown by the sharpest, yet softest cuts of breath. I’m poisoned by your blinded assumption and fears.

Open your eyes.

I am a rose covered from the roots to stem with countless thorns. I am a rose with bruised petals. I am a rose you do not perceive as lovely and dainty.

Can’t you see?

The light doesn’t necessarily have to beam through your empty window sill to my pot. I am my own ray of growth. I am no longer the seed you planted or your feminine limped flower.

I am my own pretty rose

with and without you.

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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