A budding flower, shielded by its leaves.

‎Tell me Emma

‎what is a shield?

‎A blessing?

‎A curse?

‎A decoration or a trap?

‎

‎I feel the warm embrace of the sun,

‎the cool whisper of the moon,

‎yet I have never truly seen the light

‎not the raw, blinding kind

‎that burns with truth.

‎Not the one that reveals beauty

‎and exposes everything it touches.

‎

‎I know the seasons only through a shell

‎that was meant to protect me,

‎yet somehow became the bars of my cage.

‎My budding moments come like euphoria

‎a tremble, a rush, a pulse

‎and then, just as quickly,

‎they fall into a slow, aching lethargy.

‎

‎For to experience the light fully

‎is to accept its heat

‎its scorch,

‎its sting,

‎its power to reduce a delicate thing

‎to ash.

‎

‎What a beautifully decorated shield.

‎What a softly gilded cage

‎we carry around our hearts.

‎

‎I drift with the seasons.

‎I change with them.

‎And still

‎I do not know.

‎Could somebody tell me?

‎Could somebody give me an answer

‎I can hold,

‎I can trust?

‎

‎Oh, my dear Emma

‎Rest in my decorated cage for now.

‎Lend me your quiet strength

‎Until I am ready

‎to bloom,

‎to break open,

‎to bear the fruits of every silent struggle.

‎

‎The vulnerability of a flower

‎mirrors the trembling inside my chest

‎as the years pass,

‎as the world spins.

‎

‎365 days

‎the lifespan of a flower.

‎And yet for me,

‎365 days is only a stepping stone

‎toward the years I cannot yet see.

‎A future uncertain,

‎shrouded,

‎but one I ache to reach

‎one where I am free

‎from every cage I ever built.

‎

‎Oh, my emma

‎Tell me

‎how does the outside feel?

‎Is it as gentle as we dream,

‎or as harsh and unrelenting

‎as we fear?

‎

‎I have lived

‎365 days times nineteen

‎inside a shell

‎that was supposed to protect me.

‎But how does one grow

‎in a prison

‎made of their own petals?

‎

‎I fear the change.

‎I fear the breaking.

‎I fear becoming a wilted thing

‎lost to winter’s final breath.

‎

‎And yet

‎I pray.

‎I pray a gardener finds me,

‎plucks me from my meadow,

‎but not before

‎I wage war

‎against these walls

‎one last time.

‎

‎For I want to feel the light

‎even if it scorches.

‎I want to embrace the moon

‎even in its cold distance.

‎I want to live

‎even if living

‎means breaking

‎first.