Rose and Palm

 

 

 

Rose and Palm

I find it impossible

to be complacent

when not being listened too,

or even heard.

 

It makes me

wither like a rose

half past it’s prime,

shrink into a small brown ball,

dropping petals

on someone else’s

windowsill.

 

Even after watering.

 

Because I‘ve already died once.

 

But I guess I’m at least

partially to blame for that.

 

I am my mothers daughter

after all.

 

So in frustration

I scream

for my life,

the one I feel

I never had.

 

With the realization

that I was never really born

until this year,

and I guess that’s what I should

have expected.

 

I mourn it for nothing,

as if it were ever

possessed.

 

Yet that knowing

does not take

any

of the pain away.

 

I feel walked on

and shut out.

 

And I have been called “irrational,”

by the brightest

star in the sky.

 

All because I carved my life

on the palms

of my open hands.