Write Brained Girl

Stream of consciousness poetry (of sorts).

No one asked her if she wanted this, or if it was okay to hitch a ride on the train of her dreams.

She didn’t choose this; did not wander along the aisles of life’s buffet, loading her plate with heavy poisons and rancid fare.

But now they’re telling her she must wade five feet deep and wait for the final twelve countdown to commence.

And she already hears it. She feels the earth already falling in around her, and she’s told it is all she can have.

Hopelessness is not denying the existence of hope. It is the sense that you are not worthy, are not capable, are not allowed to own it.

And, as envy is a sin, we must resign ourselves to our poverty.

But they forgot that it is in the dirt that our souls become roots, and our roots become channels.

We grow, but we don’t know it, because we’re looking for the bloom and can’t see it.

We can’t see it because we ARE the evidence of life.

And so, an ache pulses through her stems, through the veins of her leaves and petals.

Had she a mirror, she would see that she is not the wilted, browning thing they say. She is Brilliance.

They tell her to aim a little lower, and all the while, she’s already levitating. She is Flight.

No one asked her if she wanted the shroud, nor the ashes and tears. But she accepts it without question.

If only she knew.