W hen the men hoot and holler
It’s not because you’ve done something.
Flowers do nothing to be picked
Except be there and beautiful.

Grow where you will
And bury your roots deep
Like a spiked weed.
Don’t wish you looked like one.

It’s not because you’ve done something.
Living shouldn’t be this hard.

This is part of the Statement’s 2015 Literary Issue. To read the rest of the issue, click here.

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