wounded but loved, you were given
voice, a song of struggle,
a singing shadow.
It doesn't matter you're different,
like purple striations on wildflower
or albino moths whose moonlit wings
attract night birds
to swallow them whole.
Perhaps you're a messenger
and no one is listening. Like
hearts when the body stops
breathing or prayer memorizing
It's not as if you understood the value
of punishment, the purpose of
suffering, the meaningful beauty
of resting ever so lightly
on the highest, most dangerous
bloom in the field.