You have been pushing, pushing
Pushing me
Until I am forced to open.

Grow, plant, grow.
Dig, roots, dig.

It started in May,
But I was still a bud
Until November.

Bloom, flower, bloom.
Drink, tendril, drink.

Now I’m shivering,
Too young to have petals
But not emerald alone.
It is now winter,
And I am going to die.
Thank you???

Live, rose, live.

You promised me
Not dead oaths, but
Flourishing, colorful covenants.

The things in my left pocket are scattered and few:
Tissues for wiping a tear or two,
A note to remind me of some mistake,
A tourniquet for when I break.
At the bottom is where you'll find
The bit of dignity that I resigned,
All tied up with a silver hair.