I love this flower. In the midst of so much white and yellow, this flower dares to bloom in full color. But it also reminds me of our headlong rush through life. Innocence only lasts so long. And once it’s gone, we are never the same.
The Death of a Thousand Cuts
By Michelle Garren Flye
She’s whole, pure, beautiful
When she steps out into the world,
And the first cut is kind of pitiful—
She barely notes the blood pearl.
The second comes out of nowhere—
Perhaps from the company she keeps?
She bandages it up with great care,
But no one hears when she weeps.
Third, fourth and fifth go deeper—
Needing more than a few stitches.
She covers them with a sweater
And cries until her breath hitches.
By the twentieth, she’s beyond care.
The blood splotches the floor in drips.
She armors herself to prepare
For the constant onslaught of whips.
She’ll go on and on and on
Into a world full of attacks.
She feels like an automaton,
Just surviving all the whacks.
A hundred, two hundred, more
And the armor barely dulls
The sting of each strike before
Silence falls in the rarest of lulls.
She wonders what each blow takes.
Is it blood or faith that she bleeds?
God, religion, nation—each forsakes
And their call she no longer heeds.
It’s cruel what life does to you—
How it parades and poses and struts.
In the end it’ll take you, it’s true,
By the death of a thousand cuts.
(In Remembrance): Cast Out
By Michelle Garren Flye
It’s all over but the crying now.
We never knew that would happen. We didn’t see the loss of hope, the loss of growth, the loss of who we are. How could we?
Even as we witnessed its birth.
We clustered around televisions and fell to our knees and cried and prayed and cursed. We angrily threw a flag over the destruction.
We swore we’d make them pay.
Blinded by rage, we fight a war no one can win. We send our soldiers to deserts of ash and blood. We lose what’s left of freedom in revenge.
And what of those born after?
Born into a world of anger and suspicion, how can our children ever be innocent? We guard and shield, but they know and despair.
Do you remember what it was like—before?
Before the hate, the fear, the constant defending against evil. Doesn’t it look like a golden age now? Doesn’t it look like a garden?
It’s all over but the crying now.
Cast out, left to drown in hot tears like jet fuel streaming from the eyes of a nation. Did it melt our core? Do we only wait to fall?
Regret tastes like ash, blood, desert sand. And tears.
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 