All Nonfiction
- Bullying
- Books
- Academic
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Heroes
- Interviews
- Memoir
- Personal Experience
- Sports
- Travel & Culture
All Opinions
- Bullying
- Current Events / Politics
- Discrimination
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Environment
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
All Hot Topics
- Bullying
- Community Service
- Environment
- Health
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
- Back
Summer Guide
- Program Links
- Program Reviews
- Back
College Guide
- College Links
- College Reviews
- College Essays
- College Articles
- Back
The Rose Garden
When people find out that I’m bipolar,
They always say that they’re sorry.
Pity drips off their words like rain rolling off waxy leaves.
I have not deserved pity in years.
Not since the day I first pressed a curling iron into my wrist.
Four-hundred-fifty degrees blazed through my skin like an unforgiving sun,
X-Acto knives to chop down Amaryllis,
Scissors to slice sunflowers.
My body was a snow-white garden,
And all that grew were bright red roses.
I have not deserved pity since the day I passed out on my bathroom floor.
Drowning under a sea of scarlet stems,
Swimming in my own suffering.
When I woke up, I couldn’t stand.
My limbs trembling like little leaves.
I have not deserved pity since the day I defined strength by the number of fresh blossoms that flowered each day.
With only thirty new roses, I was weak.
The day I planted one-hundred-eighty-three seeds that sprouted into a field of wild flowerbeds,
The day my legs became a landscape of unrecognizable crimson pulp,
That was the day that I bloomed.
I have not truly deserved pity since the day I was ripped from the ground and sown into a hospital.
The day I saw what my body truly was.
Violent tic-tac-toe boards ravaging my thighs,
Wet etch-a-sketch lines ripped through my ribs,
Bleeding train tracks raking across my stomach,
The whisper of life on my lips.
I have never deserved pity.
Every scar is a reminder,
Of how much I have grown.
I am a garden of blue hydrangea veins, of tan daffodil skin, of pink orchid lips, of white lily teeth.
But I will never be a rose garden again.
Similar Articles
JOIN THE DISCUSSION
This article has 0 comments.