Even the Insects Can Sing


I always thought that you had to

be important to be listened to

like somehow if rose petals dried away

while you spoke to them, then

you were never meant to be heard.

In the last few years I’ve learned to speak

to scream till my voice shattered barriers

between my father who never listened

and my mother who would never understand,

though she said she would,

as she plucked the weeds from rosebushes.

I used to think I was one of those weeds.

Maybe I am.

But that doesn’t change the fact

that when roses die

I can create new ones in their place

because I know that I’m important now.

To some extent.

If I can push myself through hospital doors

and keep the veins in my arms from bursting,

then I sure as hell can push through

the borderlines of importance, telling you,

"I’m here. No matter what.

And I know better than to believe myself a weed.

I can believe myself bigger.

I can reach out and touch every flower

that ever lived.

I am so much more than your garden can fathom.”


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