Setting poetic intention aside, there are days where I wish I was more like a cactus and less like some kind of flower or whatever image I am that draws people I really have no intention of ever talking to or caring about into my world for far longer than I really care to even think about them.
Maybe that is why I’m not afraid of being old and having parts of me not working properly and turning brown, while other aspects are just beginning to grow. Because once I reach the age where I actually look 80 or so, I can say whatever the hell I want and watch the world either accept it, pass it off as nonsense, or listen.
Some might say I voice whatever I want anyway.
On my worst days I curl up in a ball on my bed wondering what it would be like to tell pieces of the world that no matter what you tell me, I will do exactly as I choose. I will sit and do nothing. I will push myself to places that your nightmares are too scared to go. I will let my heart scream bad words and not get married and walk slow kilometers with my thoughts chasing passing cars. I will search for the chaos that my brain is desperately asking me to avoid. I will.
And yet, I always come back to this: I love too hard to always say what I think and my furiously perfectionist heart wants to do things right.
And so my cactus spines will remain largely hidden, because maybe this way, I can make the world a little kinder.
(Featured photo edited with VSCO)