If A Woman Is A Plant

If a woman is a plant
then tear that cactus out of the sand.

I want to be something beautiful,
but sassy. Something with roots.

I am more than just a pretty face
so maybe something like a rose. Seductive
velvet petals. That earthy smell. But thorns
where you’d least expect them.

Or maybe a sunflower. Something big. Bold. Yellow.
Thick stem not thick skull. I could stand tall
anywhere I wander. I could tell those farmer boys
they’re wrong. I am pretty. I am strong.

On second thought, I’ll be that damn cactus.
Carry my weight and water with me. Keep
what I’ve learned inside. Keep it under strong skin.
I won’t worry about being pretty. I’ll show those spikes
like scars of where I’ve been. And I’ll grow a flower.
If I want to. Grow where I’m least expected. Grow
where the sand burns and naked soles are too scared to wander.
There, I’ll grow.

Posted by

Astrid is a thirty-something madness who likes to write short stories that are, kind of like her, barely there. Her soul is happiest when she is reading, or being around people who lift up her spirits.

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