Nasturtium II

You called me pretty—

but said it like "pitiful."

Bright like a warning,

loud like I’m criminal.

Petals like paint

you can’t wash off clean,

a girl made of spice,

not sugar or cream.

Nasturtium.

Even the name sounds fake.

Like something you mumble

when flowers ache.

Not rose, not daisy—

I wasn’t picked,

I cracked through stone

and grew up pissed.

I bloomed from gutters,

not garden beds.

Wore rust like rubies,

and thorns as threads.

You said I climbed—

like that’s a sin?

I scaled the sky

to spite the wind.

You like your wild

in jars, not loose.

You’d prune my roots

then say it’s truth.

But I’m not soft,

I’m not a prize.

I’m the color in your throat

when you swallow lies.

So call me strange,

call me loud,

mock the way

I stand too proud.

I’m not here

to fit your plan.

I never asked

to be less than.

I’ll bloom in alleys,

I’ll bloom in spite.

I’ll burn in red

and call it light.

You tried to crush

what you never knew—

but weeds like me

will outlive you.