flesh object
Bread
- Feb 15, 2023
- 42
Everyone just wants to be happy. It does not matter if I am right or wrong, we are just wandering aimlessly to find happiness.
I was a seed in soil too dry to nourish me. Destined to wilt and die before I had a chance to bloom. People see beauty in me, I do not. Some try to preserve my state of being, by sacrificing materialistically, sometimes through their own existential burdens.. To preserve my beauty? or to allow me to bloom. Life is full of unconditional suffering. Its tragic that I was destined to a life of pain.
I sprouted and stood alone, abandoned by those who were supposed to care for me. The soil in which I grew was dry, cold, and barren. I was never expected to bloom. I was lost, with no purpose. My mind fell into a pit — I cried, I screamed, and I pleaded.
Those who glanced down into the pit of despair. Some offered an exit, while others scolded me—pretentious, clinging to their egos. They would rather be right and prove a point than truly help. It takes a lot to help, more than just providing an exit, feelings, or opinions. Everyone is so quick to judge, so eager to play the savior; yet none of them knew what it was like to be in the pit. None dared to descend into the pit to understand. Perhaps the world outside was too bright for me, or maybe I was not ready to face it after being stranded for so long. But that did not matter to them, they angrily withdrew the exit after not being able to fulfill their own ambitions.
I am a rose—a flower. I am something to be appreciated, not possessed. Flowers die when they are picked; no one should be possessed. I make friends and allow individuals to come close to me—only to be hurt more deeply. My petals fall, for I am fragile. People come and go, trying to put me back together. Some are careless or malicious; masking my imperfections to hide tragedy, some use tape; others use glue. But no matter what they do, my petals will never be the same. I hurt in ways that others cannot see or feel. Some bleed for me- using their own blood to bind my petals back together; however, it does not change the fact that my petals fell to begin with.
I have prickles to protect me. Every experience adds a new layer to mitigate pain. But why do some wish to cut off my stem, to possess me, leaving me without an identity?
I have no face, no clear identity. Everything I find unacceptable has taken root within me, poisoning me from the inside. I hide from my own shadow, even though it is a part of me. Every decision, every heartbreak, every leap of faith feels like an attempt to compensate for the past. I am never truly free from the soil I grew in, for it has become a part of me. And yet, it is not enough—it never will be, and that is okay. Each petal that falls is forever altered, unable to return to what it once was. The bindings that hold me together will eventually tear and expose my wounds. Why am I seen as a problem to fix, something vulnerable to protect? Why does no one appreciate that I sprouted at all? Will it ever be enough?
It is tragic when one is not able to be meaningful in their own lives, so they intrude and plant artificial meaning in mine, positive or not.
When my petals fall, will they look back at me?
When I decompose, will they remember me?
When I am gone, will they find another flower just like me?
I was once a rose.
I was a seed in soil too dry to nourish me. Destined to wilt and die before I had a chance to bloom. People see beauty in me, I do not. Some try to preserve my state of being, by sacrificing materialistically, sometimes through their own existential burdens.. To preserve my beauty? or to allow me to bloom. Life is full of unconditional suffering. Its tragic that I was destined to a life of pain.
I sprouted and stood alone, abandoned by those who were supposed to care for me. The soil in which I grew was dry, cold, and barren. I was never expected to bloom. I was lost, with no purpose. My mind fell into a pit — I cried, I screamed, and I pleaded.
Those who glanced down into the pit of despair. Some offered an exit, while others scolded me—pretentious, clinging to their egos. They would rather be right and prove a point than truly help. It takes a lot to help, more than just providing an exit, feelings, or opinions. Everyone is so quick to judge, so eager to play the savior; yet none of them knew what it was like to be in the pit. None dared to descend into the pit to understand. Perhaps the world outside was too bright for me, or maybe I was not ready to face it after being stranded for so long. But that did not matter to them, they angrily withdrew the exit after not being able to fulfill their own ambitions.
I am a rose—a flower. I am something to be appreciated, not possessed. Flowers die when they are picked; no one should be possessed. I make friends and allow individuals to come close to me—only to be hurt more deeply. My petals fall, for I am fragile. People come and go, trying to put me back together. Some are careless or malicious; masking my imperfections to hide tragedy, some use tape; others use glue. But no matter what they do, my petals will never be the same. I hurt in ways that others cannot see or feel. Some bleed for me- using their own blood to bind my petals back together; however, it does not change the fact that my petals fell to begin with.
I have prickles to protect me. Every experience adds a new layer to mitigate pain. But why do some wish to cut off my stem, to possess me, leaving me without an identity?
I have no face, no clear identity. Everything I find unacceptable has taken root within me, poisoning me from the inside. I hide from my own shadow, even though it is a part of me. Every decision, every heartbreak, every leap of faith feels like an attempt to compensate for the past. I am never truly free from the soil I grew in, for it has become a part of me. And yet, it is not enough—it never will be, and that is okay. Each petal that falls is forever altered, unable to return to what it once was. The bindings that hold me together will eventually tear and expose my wounds. Why am I seen as a problem to fix, something vulnerable to protect? Why does no one appreciate that I sprouted at all? Will it ever be enough?
It is tragic when one is not able to be meaningful in their own lives, so they intrude and plant artificial meaning in mine, positive or not.
When my petals fall, will they look back at me?
When I decompose, will they remember me?
When I am gone, will they find another flower just like me?
I was once a rose.
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