Petals

By: A.C. Cash

Pinching pretty petals.

It’s still dark outside.

You’ve never rubbed me the wrong way.

I’ve arrived at your clandestine gate.

Flowers dance.

Tulips. Daisies. Lilacs. Roses.

I wrote a letter to my younger self.

I told her, “Don’t mess with poppies.”

Lest suffer with legs that won’t rest.

A heartbeat with barely a tempo.

Stop. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. Start.

How many more salvations?

Legs running through fields of poppies.

Strip me of petals, of beauty, of free will.

Like the clipping of wings.

The coming of winter.

Pluck from me all that keeps me hidden.

Every leaf and supple petal, a mask.

Stuffed into the nose of an old bottle.

I am saved from myself.

No longer amongst the poppies.

Stem. Insect. Restless. Running.

Pinch me wide awake.