so can i

i turned sixteen in january

it used to feel like a dull ache

i wanted to be born into the spring rain or summer grass

this year it felt like a big fuck you

to the frost to the wind and to the chill

i was born at the height of season where everything dies

i pour the basil and mint growing on my window sill out every november

no matter how well they’re doing that year

because between the cold and me they have no hope

i tend to wilt in the winter

the sun turns bitter and my mother’s house has no heat

i lay in the dark and birth twin streams

pinching my skin with numb fingertips

two years in a row

i wrote suicidal letters in the dark hours of my birthday

that was the song i sang to myself as i cried myself into another anniversary

this year was different

someone gave me a planter of soft red roses

i rubbed the petals between my finger and thumb

and i thought to myself

if something so thin delicate

can keep it’s colour

keep its shape

can continue to put down roots into the frost bitten ground

then so can i