If I were a flower,
I would push my roots
through this crude, barren house,
peel the stench of scarring welts and burns,
off layer by layer,
and adopt a sheen, green coat
to blend in with the sea of
hyacinths and daisies.

I would pull myself above
your grip, ragweed
clenching my stems
leaving callous stubs
imprinted at the tip.

I would worm my way out
as you call to me,
feel the sting of your last impressions –
The deep-seated dents of your
malt-stained knuckles, bringing the
color out of my cheeks –
to erode with the earthworms underground;

desperate to fight the change of seasons
and pull me under to graze my soul
with another harsh winter.

But your overstated regret does not
faze my budding heart,
or stab at my conscience.

I will forget you and
thrust myself into
an invigorating birth,
where the sun can heal my
violet fingertips.