She: the wildflower

A storyline

to her whose heart is aching

to her who's at the barren land

to her whose enchantment is long gone

to her whose jar will be a little empty forever

to her who deserves me by her side

to her who can't have me by her side

The wind took off one day, swooshed through the windows, curtains bewildered, and struck through Decrying her being and prominently impacting her years to come. All that was left was crumbled pages, withered petals, a shadowed head, a mirror, and droplets of tears here and there.

What's left is a poem.

A poem of her journey.

She: the wildflower.

The shield of resilience, an armour of unassuming, the sword of adaptability and vibrancy and spontaneity and independence, and everything that truly made her a wildflower.

She was in a vase placed on the high end of the shelf. Admired and loved but a condition to be handled with utmost care. The fragility, what seemed like the result of her bewitched self, well now that I think of it, maybe it was the vase.

The vase growed, protected, and uplifted her, but maybe just limited the display and created limited boundaries for her.

The vase shattered, the flower dispatched, and the thorns were all over her, hurting her as if everything was relentlessly snatched. The pain she felt, the screams she made, under the broken glasses, she was barely felt. Trying to pull her out will result in some bloodshed, for her and us. All that's left to do is emotional belonging, but wait wasn't she just uprooted?

Everyone remarked 'Oh I wish it was a dandelion, displaced, isolated yet those petals grew on their own and spread their glow.

Why, though?

Isn't she that strong?

To her who still has a chance to recover.

That thorn won't be out soon, those scars will always be a part of you, the shattered glasses will always remind you, and returning to where you used to be isn't an option.

All that's left to accept and move on.

I know it's hard, even writing about it is.

but,

imagine getting a new vase, though made of glass but a guarding place to grow in.

Imagine getting back there, though a lot to climb but you'll reach the high-end space again.

Imagine getting the admiration back, though ignoring a lot of noise but that one voice representing that all.

Let me be that representation.

Let me help you take those steps.

The scars, let me help you shadow them.

It's time for you to let me be for you.

To my wildflower, you'll be back again.

I promise.