I said I am not your flower
I said I am not your flower.
Not one of your saints in gold,
not bred for beauty
or held in soft hands.
I crack sidewalks.
Feed on rot.
Grow where the ground has failed.
You don’t want what blooms from that.
Don’t touch it.
Don’t name it.
Don’t kneel like this is sacred.
My roots remember the blade.
My leaves keep score.
I’ve outlived the trowel, the drought,
the boots of better men.
Still you hover.
Still you dig
with those careful hands,
like this was love
and not hunger.
But I am not yours to rescue.
And if I turn—
if I open—
know this:
It is not forgiveness.
It is a warning.
Something in me survives
by consuming the light.
