Roots

She grew up knowing what pain looked like.

On the face of her mother,

In the hands of her father.

But she painted her nails the color of sunrise

And buried butterflies with gentleness.

She grew with the roots.

Twisting, turning,

Grabbing for purchase.

But they burned away under her light.

And through their ashes, grew weeds:

Wild and beautiful.

Stories in her mind became adventures.

Bare feet and bruises.

Her silence was never empty.

Her words, never reckless.

She knew pain.

It was her friend,

And her enemy.

Because it lived in the bodies

Of those she loved most.

But it taught her what summer rain looked like

Through hungry eyes.

She would never forgive it,

Even if she understood it.

The roots never held her down.