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


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 


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.

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