To be a flower

I’m breathless now in the way mist settles.
I’m blinded now in the way ultra violet light laughs.
And my vision is foggy but some things seem more clear
like a petal has just opened back into herself
to find that she was never living,
to find she never saw the sun,
to find that the dew never nestled and
to see that blackness was the only thing
that she had ever relied upon.
And the moment I woke up from this dream
was the moment I rewrote it as a nightmare.
Finally coming to realize
that I am still.
Still.
Still.
Still and buried underground
where the dampness surrounding my eyes
will never be enough to sprout true bliss.

I need to feel thunderstorms.
I need to feel humidity become me.
Cover me. Shower me into oblivion.
Enter me into a field of hunger— no thirst.
So precipitated, I shake at the knees.
I need to remember what it’s like to beg,
what its like to feed— no drink
from the night until I’m quenched— no
drenched in a passion so deep
that I’m aching to pull the roots beneath me.

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About Robyn

"If you haven't known insanity, you haven't lived."
This entry was posted in Recovery (USA). Bookmark the permalink.

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