Self History As Victorian Flower Bouquet by Ellora Lawhorn

As Crocus I was youthful glee.

Quiet but curious, trying everything and sparing nothing. Jumping

into pools with no knowledge of depth and no instinct to paddle. Learning

everything I could get anyone to tell me, and not giving

up when answers were refused. I was the first to emerge

from the winter, the earliest bloomer.

 

As Lavender I was distrust, shunned one too many times after I sprang

in too eagerly, too whole. Several times bitten, shy

forever, scent alluring and mysterious. Shooting you a smile

across the room but giving the cold shoulder to small talk, or big talk.

Felt so strongly that I shut my feelings away, proclaimed I didn’t have any.

Swayed in the fields by myself,

by myself.

 

As Holly I was foresight, with all my visions

(Cassandra of the deep woods)

I could consider myself Holly still.

I foresaw what I feared, convinced myself

I would be left until I made it so.

Cassandra of the Tundra.

Cassandra all alone.

Scared at every whistle of wind, every moment

the hand holding her had to pause became a betrayal.

Maybe I only call this past to make the distance grow larger.

 

As Queen Anne’s Lace I am sanctuary, a shield, a nest, shade

from whatever seeks to pluck from the tall grasses.

Though I shield, dangers are still near,

for that is what a sanctuary is.

I never claimed I was perfect. I never claimed I was better.

The shield still has holes, and if you squint, it might just look

like a net to capture, to keep against will.

Throw it on the ground, trap a rabbit

underneath.

The twitch of a cottontail is no match for steel.

 

As Freesia I will let go, will be attentive

to your desires. Will admit it took

my Lavender self years to learn you were considerate

with mine. I will trust that you will stay

within my field when I do not hold you captive.

But if you choose to go, I will wish you well, and I will pluck myself a bouquet.


“This piece felt too autobiographical, with not enough lyrical metaphor to connect the Victorian Language of Flowers to my own life experience. I received feedback that I should incorporate more repetition, but I found nowhere to plausibly do so, and the whole thing kind of sputtered out.”

Ellora Lawhorn (she/her) is a queer writer from Northeast Ohio, USA. She has been writing poetry and stories since she could hold a pencil, and often writes about mystery and trauma. Her instagram is @ellrosewrites.

Previous
Previous

florida from above by Nico Bryan

Next
Next

At The End of the Rainbow by Ellora Lawhorn