For all the versions of ourselves we buried with love.
Coming out means letting go
of someone I tried so hard to be,
a version built so long ago
that never quite resembled me.
It’s decaying roots that wouldn’t take,
in a garden tended night and day,
but no amount of care could make
a bloom that couldn’t find its way.
No petals, just a wilted start,
a stem that bent before the sun
a quiet loss I kept at heart
for all the years I came undone.
Leave a Reply