Wallflower.
a poem.
Wallflower
Your scent is all over the garden,
yet you hide behind the lush bushes.
You bloom where no one looks,
where the sunlight reaches
but no eyes do.
You lurk in the shadows,
though your light burns just as brightly as theirs.
You’re standing behind the curtain,
while your work’s on stage
Everyone is seated, watching-
or so it seems.
Their eyes are open,
but never quite on you.
So you observe.
you absorb you observe and absorb them all
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From the outskirts,
you gather pieces of everyone:
their laughter,
their arguments,
the things they say
when they think nobody is listening.
You slip out through the back door
while the show goes on
You walk through dark streets,
humming beneath your breath,
though the city swallows the sound.
At home,
you sit behind a typewriter.
As your thumbs tap against the keys,
quietly, carefully,
Though the sound is once again muffled — this time by the laughter next door.
you write about the garden.
the stage.
the city.
about all the people
you’ve watched from the outskirts
And when you reach the end of the page, you type, not as subtly as before
“You’re a wallflower.”
-Zahra Saeed.
