I have a basket of petals

Soft, velvety flower petals to shower on everyone else

Petals made of love and hope and all the splendid things I wish for everyone to feel, petals that I cover their sorrows with

But when I finally come to face myself

My basket is empty

My fingers grasp for the delicate outline of the roses

I try to feel for the silk of their skin, the captivating scent of their bloom

But all I find myself touching is the violence and loathing of their thorns

The petals do not flutter to me, do not grace the top of my head

The wind always finds a way to blow the petals out of my reach

Why is it that whenever I try to run my fingertips through those vast fields

The fields where I long to find myself basking in warmth and confidence

I always end up falling back into the razor touch of the thorns

Where I prick myself, where blood that tastes of tears and unhappiness and self-hatred stains my palms

It seems as if eons have passed by, each month taunting me, mocking me that I am unable to raise a fruitful garden

I cannot find the courage to water it with reassurance and expose it to the glow of supportive words and embraces

Thus I end up cultivating a field of gloom, suffering a drought of hope and faith

Yet every now and then, when the trees stand proudly, the sun extends a blazing hand of friendship, and the promise of an optimistic rain thunders in the distance

I can sense a sprout growing, struggling through the ground

In the hopes that one day, it will be able to bloom and shower the petals I yearn to hold in my hand