there's no such thing as a knife that's too sharp

fat buds swell on the camellia in the courtyard. the folds of of pink are wrapped, fetal, striving unborn and unconscious, pleated in a thin green womb against the frost and the pollution and the loudness of the world. i grew like that, too, once. and unfolded into the loud world and stretched out to the sun and stank with pollen for the future and will brown slowly and turn in at the edges and fall into soft pieces and be swallowed by dirt and new time.

collecting yourself is very difficult when your nature is just to open wider and wider and never close.