Strangers laugh and point at me.
Fingers carelesslly lighting
fires as if magic bred beneath
their shirt sleeves. I used to
burn badly. Now I stroll with
the pain. Bring me more, please.
It is beautiful, no? Suffering.
So I'm the sour girl, woman-child.
The oddity. The shrinking violet
in a field of drunk wild flowers.
And if you search long enough
you may see me. My short petals,
the purple glint in my eyes.
But I blend in well. I've learned
to adapt to changing seasons.
Smiles in Summer, frowns in Winter.
So when you arrive at my garden,
don't expect to pick a bouquet.
I travel solo. A gift for one.