The things I’ve forgotten, the messes I’ve made,
the dried-up, brittle-boned detritus of survival.

Perhaps I left it out as a reminder.

A forecast. A prediction.

Or a testament to who I really am,
beneath the soil of wasted hour and wanted nutrient.

Root-bound. Buried.

Parched or drowning, depending on the weather.

Somehow, even so, I will bloom.




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