dusty

I am told I’m like a buttercup: 

a radiance of joy, of sunshine.

I am a testament to overcoming

the harsh realities of humanity, 

and their treatment toward each other.

Like weeding buttercups. 

I am told I’m strong, a survivor, 

a resilient soul, one filled with determination. 

Yet I feel like a dainty little buttercup 

(small, frail, easy to step op)

every time my mother calls me that.

“Hello Buttercup”

I am not one that represents 

beauty, joy, or youth.

Youth is supposed to be full of life,

of growth and new beginnings.

To be their ray of sunshine.

“Chin up buttercup”

I am placed on a pedestal:

the adopted royal child.

I see the joy and laughter I bring,

yet part of my soul denies it.

Regardless, I stand tall.

Eyes as soft as a cecilia’s stem,

cast up toward cloud speckled skies.

Her attention elsewhere,

mind filled with inquires as curious

as the moon chasing her sun.

She runs experiments to discover meaning,

within her surroundings.

within herself.

to wrap my arms around your torso,

to have my ear pressed atop your heart?

as our legs lace together under the covers,

like we’re held by a red string of fate.

would you kiss me?

would your arms’ embrace be warm

or would you hold me like your past lovers,

leaving cinders along my skin

from your touch?

would you leave me the following morning?

bedside cold and empty.

or would you pull me closer

until our very molecules merge

Ice springs from nimble fingers,

coating atop steel and blowing overhead.

Eyes cold as frosted rivers hold remorse,

heart weighted with despair.

Fire roars overtop, singeing blue tips