I don’t want to be in love...
Because I don’t want to be bound,
to reply to your good morning texts,
or feel obliged to bring flowers on Valentine’s,
or remember anniversaries,
or book dinner that night.

I want to be quiet
like a cat,
and love you
slowly,
without noise,
without demand,
but deeply.

On a field of flowers,
I'm a pale rose who’s never known
love beyond scarcity.
My sisters wait to be chosen—
but I don’t.

I long to be cherished,
thorns and all.

But flowers can’t set boundaries,
so I bleed, turn red,
miss my sisters,
wither,
and grow again—
still hoping to be cherished.

Deep inside, I feel like our sun:
a giant, burning star.
Yet I’m not giant—rather tiny, very small.
My soul desires, wants, craves…
It longs to be released from its cage.
The ego wanders and wonders: “Who am I?”
It seeks purpose, but confronts a wall beyond the window
and contemplates its end.