At this point I should’ve figured this one out years ago, but I’m still hopelessly uncertain, and I claw my eyes out trying to catch a glimpse of the truth. Tear my hair out trying to make room for the enlightenment ment to illuminate my world, but at this point I’m just too afraid to ask –

I feel like I’m so doomed. A late bloomer showing my flowers when snow falls waiting to blanket the landscape in destined white and cold, frozen over. How am I to survive in this climate?

I try to keep a face on, a certainty, a confidence, but I’m torn apart daily. Plucked leaf by leaf, and now I’m a barren flower standing alone in an empty field glancing at the setting sun wondering how, asking the why, asking the who. From where shall I find grace? From who shall I find refreshments? I carry a lifetime of neglect packed into an ill-fitting garbage bag I’m lugging around too afraid to dispose of because I can’t be certain what I’ll lose in the process.

Who can I reach out to? I lack the very leaves ment to siphon water to my core, my very structure broken, I’m standing there naked swaying with the wind, nearly uprooted. My yellowing turns a darker shade of brown, my green turns ashy, my vision cloudy, but there’s not a drop of rain coming my way.

Should I fall apart right here and right now what have I even done but stood still in a field all by myself, awaiting my turn, not realizing that it passed by me a long time ago, in a place long since forgotten. The first snow sit atop of me weighing me down, my will to sustain myself forsaken by the turning of the season. Darkness creeps ever closer, and I can’t do anything but continue to remain hoping the sun will grace me with another day.