that's mrs. mediocrity to you

Blooming is a matter of survival. You have to do it, no matter what. It doesn’t have to be big or bold or pretty or showy, it just has to be done.

Even if you’ve been trampled or blown over, even if you’re lying in the mud, even if you’re dying of thirst, even if no one will see.

You don’t do it for the sun or the praise or the perfume.

You don’t do it for the sky or the attention.

You don’t do it for the hummingbird.

You do it for the release.

Open.

Even when it hurts.

Let the world wrestle you to the ground.

Stand up and offer the beauty of resistance.

Find the light seeping in through all the cracks.

Silence is not the same as consent or cowardice or indifference. Silence is a sign of strength. Silence means you are listening.

Breathe in. Grow again, taller. Find a way. Take the path you need, or the one you can find. Keep going. Blooming is a matter of survival.

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the silent places you seek in the darkness
just before the sun comes up

on a summer night

spent

in the company of story

and all the words you wrote
were the echo of your sanity

falling from a perch on orion’s

back

onto pages thin as petal

and the whispers you carried
were your gravity

.

.

.

.

for a dance

with a bright blue moon

.

one hand

waving free

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