I am


I am as delicate as a rose,
But as fierce as its thorns.
I hear their judgments and complaints.
I see the anger in his face.
I wonder when I will find my home.
I am as delicate as a rose. 

I pretend I don’t care. 
I feel the sear of our love as it mutates to hate. 
I touch the silk of his hair.
I worry and
I cry, because he’s not there.
I am as delicate as a rose. 

I understand why.
I bid him goodbye. 
I dream of marble counters, bamboo floors, with a powder room on the second floor. 
I see the clouds in the Westside sky.
I believe it is I. 
I am as delicate as rose, 
But--as fierce as its thorns!

By Ingrid Dickerson