when you grow up in a hurricane of your

own making, you will think

every

single

breeze

to be a gale force wind. each

breath of air, each sigh of relief

a lowering of your guard, a betrayal 

to the barriers you worked

so hard 

to fortify.

you cannot afford to stop moving.

to rest is

to sleep is

to dream, 

and you cannot afford to dream.

there will always be

another storm, waiting,

lurking, watching for the moment

you let yourself fall.

and when the skies clear,

you are lost. out of place.

a cactus, standing too tall,

too sturdy,

too sharp,

in a field of wildflowers. you want

to be like them - 

bright, 

contented,

all friendly purples and delicate blues,

not a thorn in sight.

but you are not like them. you will

never

be

like them.

with every cloud imminent upheaval,

with every shadow doom on the horizon,

how can you let yourself be gentle?

you are too much. you will

always

be

too much.

seasons change. you do not.

flowers leave, 

blowing away with the wind,

frustrated by your shadow,

tired of your bulk blocking

sunsets, 

sunrises,

all the beautiful things.

some do not.

when light creeps out

from behind the clouds like a secret,

like some half-lost smile,

you are not alone. 

you do not know how to not be alone.

watch them stay,

watch them grow,

try not to think that

the planting of roots is a promise

because they will leave. they will

always

leave.

the bloom catches you by surprise.

blush pink petals, shrinking,

embarrassed at such a display

of softness. it is you

and it is not you. this

beauty, this weakness,

far more dangerous than your spines.

you do not want it. but

roots remain, blues and purples

dancing to a song of

security, still here.

they are still here. pink 

sways in the gentle breeze,

not a cloud in sight.

you know that 

you are not like them. you will

never

be 

like them.

maybe you do not have to be.