Translucent white petals draped over a slim
wire core, only you could survive this.
When terra firma caved in and dirt fell from the sky, leaving fragile
roots exposed, you said nothing.
When bitter rain forcefully dripped down your throat and
hollowed you out, you said nothing.
When tangerine rays seeped in tentatively and the trees
groaned back into place, you said nothing.
You still bloomed, and wire thickened to fill your loss, twisting into
steel so jagged your petals were cut from the inside out.
People made the mistake of thinking that these
thorns of yours had been there all along, when instead they were merely
grapples on the wall your tendrils feebly grasped to
escape the tainted mud below.
On higher ground, your beauty is glaring, ragged as it is, inadvertently
taunting the elements which uprooted you.
You can refuse the sun, but when morning comes
its warmth will draw your petals towards the sky
Elizabeth Cai is a student in her last year of undergraduate studies of psychology and music at Boston College. Aside from being a violinist, avid reader, and EDM fan, she also enjoys baking spiced tea cupcakes, cooing over cat pictures, and ridding the world of emotional abuse.