The Plant

Growing up as a weed.

The pot, a vessel cold and deep,  
Where insects lurk and fruit does weep.  
With every drink, a memory stings,  
Of hands that push and pain that clings.

The water whispers cruel despair,  
A mother’s grip, a suffocating snare.  
My leaves curl at the thought of rain,  
For each drop blooms the ache again.

It still flows on like memories,  
Which no soap can wash away.  
I scrub and scrub until the scars are raw,  
Yet the dirt is here to stay.

Petals torn, and I am left—  
Lonely, withering, bruised, bereft,  
A bitter bloom that somehow seeds,  
Unsure if flower or a weed.

So then I turn to burning water,  
A stinging, desperate embrace,  
Each drop a fleeting agony,  
Which steals me from this place.

Yet in mirrors, fragments haunt me,  
Broken petals I hardly know.  
Each glance reveals the remnants,  
Of all I can’t outgrow.

Water should bring life and more,  
Leaving plants to prosper, soar.

But I'm not a flower;  
I'm simply me.

Water, a confusing memory.