or, well-wishes from the other side
May you learn forgiveness is the whisper in a seashell
awaiting your ear
you have bloomed backwards many a season
still expected to be vase ready
you prickly and painful
May you know there are hands crafted to carry bouquets of you
You burst of blooming burst of Blackness
May you know light spills like blud and both will lead you somewhere
someone will need your goodness for pollination
someone will feed on you
May you be enough to nourish
and still be good enough to you
every tree falls when it’s ready to live differently
I am worth more than a metaphor for trauma
painted in florals and fruit, but gardens are beautiful
and I’ve seen some survive the brutal of winter.
The thing is,
I’m healing.