Wild Violet

Ever since I was a little girl I have always felt sorry for the flowers.

Everything. Every moment, every word, every touch, mattered to me. And it still does.

Like a boy scout learning to tie knots in so many magnificent patterns, I learned the tightest of knots that could be fit to hold all that I felt. Tucked in bed, it was safe resting below my chest. I still remember how wide my eyes would sit open as a child. I can feel the hope begin to manifest again within me as I sit back and remember.

I wished for nothing more than for someone to accept my vulnerability. I craved for someone to cradle it in the way my mother cradled me when I was too young to comprehend the weight of my delicacy. I know I have always been this way. I know because I have never felt more at home than when I speak of the way my heart receives yours. And yours and yours and yours and yours. I see you all.

Why feel sorry for the flowers?

Because they’ve only bloomed last week and you have already forgotten that they are the reason the air smells like spring. You stepped on one by accident trying to get in your car and I'm sure you won't ever notice. Because when the sun goes away and the clouds suffocate the blue sky they can't mask their wilt. I feel sorry for the flowers in the way I have always felt sorry for myself. Perhaps that’s too much to digest right now. I'll put that thought to bed, or maybe just down for a nap.

But I feel like I finally have the words that can do these feelings justice, now. Ever since I was a little girl I have always felt sorry for the flowers.

| Anna Lopez