I used to think of myself as a flower in a garden, amongst hundreds of other flowers and greeneries. We grew together — a seed, a sprout, a leaf, a stem — until one day March comes, and I have now grown a bud.
I saw the others, opening their petals one by one. Letting their vibrant colors light up the bushes. Pistils standing proud against the bright morning sun. They did it so bravely, like there was nothing to be afraid of. It became a common scenery for me, but March has to end.
And I haven’t bloomed yet.
How petty would it be for me if I was to say I’m scared of what would come. The birds will fly too fast and tear my petals, rain will pour endlessly so my leaves would rot, or no insect will be uninterested of my beauty, and I will wilt without purpose.
Useless and unseen.
Spring is ending, and I am but a bud.
My petals and colors haven’t met the soft ray of the sun. My pistils haven’t had the chance to stand proud against the wind, and I am regretting everything before it’s starting.
Time is up.
I want to be kind, I want to bloom and bear fruits and share my beauty with those who see it.
Time is up.
Silly flower. Autumn will be too cold for you to bloom.
Time. Is. Up.
I could only watch my body broke off from a swinging stem. Lying down on the freezing soil, waiting for what I fear most.
Unknowingly rotting.
What could’ve…
It is my one and only chance to be kind, and I kissed hope on the lips goodbye.
I bloomed never.
