You would tell me I was chosen.
As if that somehow made me special.
As if the shame and the indignity
that you saw in my roots
could be washed clean
with my repotting.
But when you took me to your home,
you would forget I was from elsewhere.
That my leaves needed different light.
And you’d be horrified
by my thorns, and
my chaotic growth.
You thought my branches threatened yours,
or that my fruits were somehow toxic.
So you were heavy with the pruning,
and light with nutrients
In the hope I’d
become more like you.
Or that I’d blend into this lawn,
and learn to blossom in the shadows:
Not too overt, or growing wildly,
but neatly tied against
that old brick wall,
worthy of my place.
You would tell me I was stubborn
As if that were enough to change that.
As if that isn’t what nature is.
So you were shocked, I think,
when I used it
to creep,
quietly,
Away.
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