burning, blooming
a poem about comparison, tragedy, and anger wrapped in the imagery of blazing sparks, burning down the ideology that i have held about myself for so long.
February 9, 2022
your flowers bloomed so brilliantly
your ink glided gracefully
you always knew
just
what to say.
i, on the other hand,
feel like i’m not blooming at all.
the ink i write with is poisonous —
i write about pain
my petals are stained
they shrivel from a bright yellow
to a jet black
in an instant.
sunflowers, radiance.
when the ink hits the paper
the sun rays turn to fog
the sunflowers i admired
die
in my grasp.
your fire blazed
enough to keep you warm.
my fire scorched me
and singed the precious papers
where i used to scribble fond daydreams.
all i write is what i feel.
the inescapable feeling:
when the fire is so hot it feels cold
your heart is frozen.. you think,
but it’s actually burning.
the fire surges through your veins,
onto the paper.
and you can’t stop it.
who needs sunflowers when you can’t even see the sun?
sometimes fire burns so bright
you think it’s the sun
and you condition yourself to survive
under its unnatural heat
without realizing
that this blaze you’ve created
does not allow growth of beautiful things
but only destruction.
and you think
that the way things burn is beautiful
because you’ve witnessed it for so long
don’t you want to know
what true light is? -g.c.
Grace Cross (they/she)
hi, i’m grace! i am an actor and a writer. a lot of my poetry seems to be inspired by the works of phoebe bridgers, julien baker, and sylvia plath — mostly meaning that a lot of it is obliteratingly sad. i hope that it can provide you with a sense of familiarity or comfort.