WILDLY YOUNG

I wanted to grow. 

I wanted to blossom—

before I was even a sprout.

I wanted to reach for the sun—

before I ever felt the cool,

safe darkness.

I grew—

and grew.

And finally—

I bloomed.

And bloomed.

Then I shriveled.

One by one,

I lost my petals.

Then the next year came,

and I couldn’t wait for the season.

But just like that—

it was gone.

Until—

I found myself more excited

for what was to come

than where I was.

And with each winter, I aged.

And every summer,

my blooms weren’t as bright.

And maybe—

just maybe I spent too much time

reaching and not living.