I grow from a place
where emerald rain
pounds against the
land, painting the
hills bright green. I
paint, too, hoping to
leave my mark on the
world.
I live with a fear of
failure, hurt, or
embarrassment, like a
pale yellow
dandelion that hides
when the sun rises.
I would fall down if
my stem did not push
me back up again.
I run, not through
life, but from it, like
a bunny startled by a
sound. I hide, my
face glowing red, try
to change color, like
a chameleon.
I am a locked door,
and only some people
can find the key.