I am useless

like a flower.

born to grow and die

only so that someone

can eye me like a prized possession.

I have no purpose

other than to look pretty

with my dainty petals

softly folding in

one another

in an endless maze of wonder.

I’ve been admired

and grazed,

it should make me happy,

to feel wanted,

but it makes me feel disgusted

that someone would only love me for my body.

I don’t want to just be beautiful.

(I don’t want to be weak)

I want to grow in the light

for the sake of growing,

I want to live

for the sake of living,

I want my colour to drain

for the sake of dying.

I don’t want to grow, live, and die

for someone else’s enjoyment.

I will not be used

like a flower

so stop staring at me

like I can be.

(I may be beautiful, but there is so much more to me than my flower persona).

I suppose this always starts

in the same

way

a mental break

I finally learned that

people have it worse

than me

mental illness is

not

romantic

it is not

literature

there are people

who will

not survive

no one ever told

me

it gets better

but I figured that one

out and

I survived