Nature and Relationships

You forgot when we first met, you were artist and I writer. I had something all of my own. Now I have self-doubt the size of hailstones. The woman is the fragile flower. Oh, how I wish to gather the sun in my skin to out shine you! How frustrating to live under another’s name. It’s enough to spur my anger, enough to curse you on paper. But I am a stunted half-thought, never enough for action, never enough for words spoken. Planted in second-hand sun as your roots grow into me.

The woman is always a fragile flower, the man an overwhelming tree. We can live simultaneously, but the tree multiplies the flower’s years tenfold. The woman closes her petals inside herself, to protect the delicates. And when the rains come, she is stripped naked.