I used to be a girl

who was so afraid of change

that she buried her roots

and fought off deforestation

with the tangled branches of adolescence

and the sharpened buds of potential

I’m what society calls a ‘woman’ now

who is so paralyzed by static

that she clings to the moisture

of the waves with the power

to uproot anything of permanence

and shock the warmth with a bitter cold

We’re told to spring forward

with our trunks full of circles

but I find myself falling backward

into a pile of leaves so dry

they’d burn me in an instant

Should I allow the water

to steal from me

and disperse what my sap has to offer?

Or is it best

to supplement my soil with cement

and stand because someone is always listening?

My skin can only handle so many splinters.