iNKWELL

we were not meant to be plucked
or blown for wishes
we were not mean to be centerpieces

we were not meant to match garlands
or to be tucked under your noses
we were not meant to be plucked

there were no directions given on our existence
unfortunately
we have only been told to be pretty
and kind
to smell good
and grow as the grass grows
dip when shoved by the tangible invisibility of the wind
but never allowed to speak

we were not meant to be plucked
uprooted
even petals give character
but never meant to be pulled from our heads
in a lesser fashion
our bloom was not mean to be limited

our bloom is quite the opposite
it is a shrieking kind of thing
screaming “freedom” and “black noise”
out of our follicles
the beauty in being a flower is
no one knows you’ve weathered any kind of storm
until you’ve been plucked from your roots
your petals, snatched from your scalp
your thorns
bent and flicked off of your skin
your defenses
completely taken away
sitting in a glass of water
and told, “you are beautiful”
as you die