An Unwatered Thing

The sun poured down from above
but not where I lay,
I was pressed into stubborn, starving soil.

Around me, tulips and roses opened easily,
drinking in light like it was meant for them,
like it had always known their names.

Water followed, soft, certain,
the kind of care that makes things beautiful.
I learned it by watching,
never by touch.

They lifted, bright and full,
petals wide without question.
I stayed dull,
edges dry,
aching toward something that never reached me.

I was growing,
just not the way they were.

Not enough sun,
not enough water,
not enough of whatever makes a thing worth seeing.

And still, I wondered
if I was ever meant to bloom
or just to live in the shadow
of everything that did.