There is a soft beat inside you—

the sound you so often interpreted

as the footsteps of those who have run away,


imprinted on your soul.

But listen closer,

because this is the beat of your heart,

and it is here to stay.


Step outside, because the shivering breeze

blowing your hair is wind,

not the cold rush of an unfeeling sky—

such a thing does not exist.

The wind simply wishes

for you to listen to the song it plays in the trees,

and when it pierces and waters your eyes,

it is encouraging you to cry

after so long of striving to be strong.


I can see wildflowers growing

from the lines in your notebook

and the scars on your heart,

budding wider with every poem you write.

Hearts are drawn to you, and hands

reach out to touch you,

plucking you from the earth

before they realize the depth of your roots.

You are an ocean

deeper than most are willing to venture,

and a forest

coated with more colors than they know how to paint with.

They stay away from what they cannot understand.

This is why they fear you.


I know that you don’t often

even understand yourself

(but there are few who do).

Brushes in hand, you speak the artist’s language

and you fathom what you can paint.

But watercolors run dry when faced with your soul,

and you are left paralyzed,

confined to a mind that confuses you.

I know that you often feel so much

that you forget you are even feeling,

but this is not the burden you believe it to be.


Please believe me

believe me

when I say that the wildflowers in your heart

are worth the ache they take to grow.

There is no comparison that I could place

beside the world,

because there is nothing like it.

I’ve felt sunlight fade, I’ve watched fires die—

but this darkness is what is needed

for your seeds to sprout.


I know there is hurt

that bandages and poetry cannot fix,

and there is little I can say

that will do anything more.

But let me tell you this:

You are fields of sunflowers

and then some,

and you must not let this world

press your petals into its capturing scrapbooks.


Dear wildflower friend,

I hope the heartache eases soon.

But however long it decides to stay,

you have me.

When you feel yourself slipping through your fingers,

I will be holding your hand

and catching every last piece.

And when I have given them back to you

and you cannot remember the way they once were,

remember this:

You have yet to meet all of you.

Be terrifyingly enchanted by this thought.


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