[on self image – being a cactus]

for years i’ve believed; every pretty petal comes with thorns of pain,
that someday all of me will be loved the same,
but
what if my petals prick instead of strutting silk?
what if i am but a stem in vain?
if the concept of beauty deems this thick skin of mine unworthy of affection
then why, dear God, why was i built with these imperfections?
no, these thoughts are of a man’s infection,
i deny;
for we all know they are an utterly ungrateful creation,

amidst the storm, i smile at an approacher shrieking a cry,
“ouch! stupid thing with its ugly spines”
– a stark reminder to myself, a horrendous deformation.