by S. Hardaker

limbs and flower stems seem oddly similar,
branching and stretching and aching in their own ways;
growing pains, a reminder of maturing.

my legs are slowly giving way.
i am 11,
i am 15.

i have stopped growing now,
the legs say,
you are stuck like this.

the wind changed.
a gust could whisk petals away,
start a new bed.

but my limbs cling on for dear life,
to the bones and the broken floors,
the craters of my steps.

i am unchangeable,
they say.
i am all you’ve got,
they scream.

a daisy stem is easy to snap,
make into a crown.
my body does not go so willingly,
and it does not forget.

– permanence