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.

Voices fill her mind, so she writes.
She feels as if her head will explode, so she writes.
The words just won’t form in her mouth, so she writes.
Moving the pencil is as natural as breathing, so she writes.
Her notebooks have too many blank pages, so she writes.
The story hasn’t been told yet, so she writes.
Her friends are waiting, breath bated, so she writes.
She can’t find a talent she likes more or criticism she accepts better, so she writes.