i am not a flower,
my petals don’t unfurl
even with roots soaking in rainwater.
though the clouds bathe me,
bluebonnets and dandelions shower me,
con los nutrientes que les sobren,
my roots don’t take their offerings.
i’m trying to be more open,
but every time I do,
it’s like walking around with an open wound,
a walking open heart surgery patient,
confusing looks for condemnation.
i stand erect, then slumped, through each season,
cycles of contentment, bliss, creation,
panic attacks, and depression.
crossing boundaries doesn’t disrupt
the flow of conversation around me,
my pistil exposed, stygma, style
and ovary, open for worker bees
to come and drain my everything,
from every corner, crevice, and capillary.