You praise the petals — bright, unbruised,
not knowing how the roots once lost their way.
I showed you one, still tangled,
and you turned your gaze — ashamed for me.

Must I always blossom,
always shine like stained-glass grace?
Is the wilt too wild,
too human for your taste?

I crave the chaos —
a glass too full, a night too loud,
a choice I’ll hate come morning,
but one that made me real somehow.

Time slips like wine down linen,
and sorrow is too thick to sip alone.
I want to dance where halos melt,
where saints forget their tone.

Let me live,
not just in your curated light —
but in the aching, messy dusk
where even rebels feel alright.

Will that steal my petals’ worth?
Or prove they bloomed despite the dirt?