My days are for me.
My growth is for me.
It's strange because I came from this place of adapt or die.
And then from this place of prune or be weeded.
I told myself I'm not a flower because my petals aren't bright enough,
My stem is too short,
And I have way too many thorns to be held.
But I have survived frost,
Fire, shears, plucking fingers,
And have even come to be desired.
Thus, I know that I'd rather wilt on a vine
Than in a vase.
Sincerely, Autumn.
