The Garden

I think I was planted in the wrong garden.

The flowers around me bloom
so effortlessly,
as if the earth had always known
what they were meant to become.

I keep mistaking their petals
for mirrors.

Somewhere beneath my skin
a different flower is trying to open,
but the season never seems to arrive.

So I remain here
rooted,
wilting quietly
in a shape that was never mine.

And perhaps that is what some life´s are meant to be;

not hating the flower,

but grieving
the garden
it could have grown in.