You are a wildflower,

untamed and golden,

blooming where the wind lays you down.

You stretch toward the sun,

rooted in nothing but freedom,

a whisper of color in the quiet earth.

The bees hum your name,

the breeze bends for you,

the world is softer where you stand.

I am a weed.

A thing unwelcome, unchosen,

growing in the cracks where no one looks.

My roots are stubborn, deep and desperate,

clinging to soil that resents me.

They call me unwanted,

a thief of space, a shadow among petals,

thriving where I should not be.

I envy the way the earth loves you,

how it opens to cradle your beauty,

how even the storm spares your grace.

I have only ever been pulled,

cut down, cast aside,

reminded I am too much, too little, too wrong.

But still, I grow.

Still, I reach.

Still, I bloom, though no one asks me to.

And if I must be a weed,

let me rise beside you,

twisting in the wild where you belong.

Let the world name me as it will—

I am here.

And I am yours.