am i a stick bug because i’m good at hiding or i’ve avoided death haphazardly?

it’s a very strange moment to realize you were not drying up for good but you might’ve just been a cactus all along

and you were sixteen when your creative writing teacher asked what plant you’d be

if you were a plant

and you said you’d be a ginkgo tree because the only thing people remember about

gingko trees are that when they release their seeds it smells like vomit

you had no idea how important this metaphor was

you had no idea that gingko trees are living fossils this metaphor is still consuming you

if someone asked you this question now you’d probably want to say you were

a stick bug

and of course bugs aren’t plants but its something that looks like something else

and acts like something else but feels like nothing, probably.

you realize you might actually be a cactus and you’re not sure why

but probably because you’ve learned how to survive hell

and although you aren’t positive what plant life could survive in a theoretical hell

you know you’ve done it

somehow someone’s cut you open and where you thought your carcass would crumble you poured out so much water you could drown a desert

and this is monumental because you had no idea that everyone else in the world needs water too. 

it’s no longer just about you and maybe it never was

and then it’s raining.

and you’re driving into it, seeing the downpour from forty feet away and not slamming the brakes.

and then you’re laying in the grass and it’s starting to get cooler out but you can feel your heart’s on fire

and then you’re back up high on a rooftop 

and you’re forgetting to remember what it’s like to want to jump 

and he’s here and you’re here 

and and and

you can’t formulate sentences fast enough but holy s**t

maybe you’ve always feared the ocean because it took until now to realize you had one inside of you.