Eighteen
summers I have spent a stunted bud, reliant on the warmth of
artificial smiles and the nourishment of falsely sweet promises
for survival. I will die of thirst if I do not learn to find my
own light. I will not remain stagnant nor my labor remain
fruitless. I will cultivate my own barren soul, quench my own
parched spirit, aid my own hindered growth; I will blossom into
the rose I was always meant to be; I will earn my rightful
place in the garden.
