Don’t try to tell me

Flowers can’t have faces.

If I want a scarlet somebody

Growing up in my mind’s garden

With peekaboo eyes

And pursed lips,

So be it.

If I want to fashion

A pink tree

With blue veins

And feather boas

Round her skinny limbs,

I have finally let myself now.

No need for permission,

Nor reminders it isn’t realism.

I know it may be childish scrawls-

Certainly strange ones-

But I no longer have that urge to

Change the oddities 

Inside me…

Instead, I long to allow them to


Show my face

In the flowery lines 

I decide for me…