the heart is just an organ

4

you always called me a weed - not that i was a pest, but

it struck you how many times i rose up from the soil despite

being cut down again.

you are a princess of the orchids, a redwood trunk

that only truly dies when isolated and sawed apart.

i don't know that luxury, of waiting to die like it is a guest at the door -

you invite it in, offer it a cup of tea, greet it 

with a smile on your face.

maybe one day, i'll spend some time trying to live instead of struggling to survive.