Would Flowers Bloom, Bright and Bold?

Wherever you look — love,
Wherever you walk — shove
your heart into the flood again.
But what if scars
blur the sight,
push through the face,
leave no space,
take the light?

Instability.
Metempsychosis. Or what?
What is left for the wounded, caught
in therapy, endless talk,
a dialogue stretched like a crooked walk?
And why does no one speak of scars,
those risen islands, branded stars?
If you dare to mention them —
how, and to whom,
without losing the bloom,
without sealing the room?

They are everywhere now,
as if freckles, moles,
or simply pain endowed
in every mark.
Or fever.
Who knows?
Or wrinkles, tight,
binding subconscious in fright,
holding night,
hiding light.

Easier to cover them — anything will do.
Cut them out, if you like.
Reserve me a place under the knife.
Grotesque,
funny,
absurd in hue.
For a second you might soar,
metaphysical,
forget —
yes, forget once more,
open the door.

It is both blessing and rotten luck
to be Algernon, stuck,
or Ulysses, never returned,
with dreams untamed, unlearned,
like the clock hand
that has not moved, nailed in sand,
frozen, planned,
hard to stand.

The world inside turns upside down.
So much the better, let it fall.
Feel every crack, embrace it all.
I want the bottom.
I want my bottom.
Yes. Show me every fragment of it,
leave it on the surface,
so I can feel each emotion, admit
every shadow I once threw aside,
let it ride.
let it ride...

Every rotten emotion,
every tear, every pang, every notion.
Bring them before me.
I am hungry.
Let me taste them once more,
like bitter iron poured on the floor,
what I bore,
and nothing more.

What is burning?
Or burned out?
Ah, yes...
My heart, devout.
Watch how it flames, inverted,
smells of roasting,
familiar to pain,
tastes like iron deficiency, plain,
all the same,
without shame.

My world is hideous
when the heart is overturned, isn’t it obvious?
Yet always curiosity
to peer inside,
to look oneself in the eye,
inhale deeper,
pretend one is whole,
emotionally, physically, spiritually,
truly, wholly.

But what if scars
blur the sight so much
they push through the face,
like memory’s brutal embrace?
Would I embrace
their trace,
their place,
their space?

And what if now I am in love with them,
cradling, touching,
kissing, overwhelmed?
I will heal —
yes, heal —
at the first chance,
or the very last,
hold the past,
make it last.

But what if new scars
were laid upon the old,
would flowers bloom, bright and bold?
Would spring return —
to me — again, uncontrolled,
souls consoled,
hearts rolled,
pain retold?



With all my soul and my torn heart, I am grateful to Sungbin Kim for his art, for how it helps me find the strength to carry myself through each new day.
Thank you for everything.