Work Text:
CONFESSION TO A VINE
I know you’ve been crying
but
I’m not good with words
I trip over them
like I do my feet
You’ve mentioned it
before
All I have are my hands
They aren’t very soft
or nice
or uncalloused
Then again
neither are those boys
with smooth palms
but sharp tongues
whose words
have cut you deep
Can I talk in terms of plants
It’s a little easier
for me to say
that
you must think yourself
a plucked Pansy
no use for much
but stepping on
But you are no flower
You are not rooted to one spot
You crawl
like
a vine
up walls and windows
like you have
into the walls
and windows
of me
And like a vine
you climb high
despite their best attempts to stunt you
(despite your best attempts
to stunt yourself)
A vine could never be
a plucked flower
no matter how quick to the root
it is cut
It simply needs time
to come back
more glorious
and
ever wilder
And I know
you do not need me
to come back stronger
I mean so little to you
and that
I am comfortable knowing
But even a vine could do
with a set of honest
hands
to keep her climb steady
when others try to uproot her
So reach for me
with all your tendrils
or any you have to spare
And with my hands I will
prune all your hurt
your ugly
your tired
your broken
all the parts of you that you think
are dead or dying
Because
I want to see you crawl and climb
up the wall and through the window
of your own soul
and take back the spaces
torn from you
And you permitting
we
you and I
can climb
can crawl
can sprawl
anew.