Awoken to Bloom

A persistent itch skims on the border of my tongue—

It has been there for several years.

Occasionally, a drip occurs,

and suddenly, flood fantasies fulfill my head.

I am loud, like the rush waves,

YET

I never embody the movement of salsa,
for fear of becoming a tsunami.

Perspiration flirts with the air,

mocking this California drought.

Have others already discovered the beauty of a hose?

It confuses me to see grass,
when all I have ever known is dirt.

I am grand, like an overused bouquet of apology flowers,

YET

I shy from all platforms,
As I’m surrounded by the lushness of the Pasadena Rose Parade.

I crave this hydration more now—

though I don’t know how,

or who to ask,

to open the faucet.

Did others already know this tool existed,

or were they suffering alongside me without it?

Illustrative and dreamily,
I walk through life,

YET
my canvases are kept in darkness,

for fear they won’t match the visions in my mind.

Suddenly—

waterboarded.

Outsiders would call it cruel.

But those who’ve tasted awoken slumber,

solely seeking the serotonin of saliva,

know the depths of real torture.

YET

with this whiplash,

I am awoken to find healing.

As this year my conquests will bloom,

likely a garden, something beautiful to breathe in.