Girl Next Door, Early Spring

You sway imperceptibly in the wind. Despite yourself, you steal a glimpse down the block.

You see her standing tall and proud. Her elegant torso gloriously rooted, gracefully stretching up into the sun. Boasting fluffy bursts of the palest, gentlest pink florals.

People walk down the street and stare in awe of your neighbor’s blooms.

They steer right past you– you don’t exist.

Your twisting branches and gnarled bark stand naked, stark. You take up space. You are sturdy. But not in the desirable way– you’re sure of it.

The same breeze that ruffles the petals of your flawless neighbor- sending a gentle dusting to the ground, feels cold and sterile as it passes through your barren branches. It reminds you of your nakedness.

Your buds are held tight- like a woman in fetal position on the couch. They don’t dance in the wind. They wait patiently. They’re not quite ready for this world.

Cherry Blossom. Her name is as light and airy as she. Jealousy slithers down your spine.

Crab Apple. This summons imagery of mishapeness, tartness. Your name is also suitable, you think to yourself. You are the girl next door.

Day by day passes. You look down and find delicate petals blushing at your base, blown down the block. Reminding you of your lacking. You stare pointedly at your buds- still held tight. You sigh.