A Literary Journal For
Aspring Young Writers

Bouquet

They handed me flowers;
pretty, vibrant, laced with the weight of their expectations.
Each petal a compliment, a demand, a silent “you must”.
At first, I smiled.
Who doesn’t like to be told they’re strong,
or that they carry the world so gracefully?

So I held the bouquet tight.
even when my arms began to ache,
even when the stems dug into my skin, as sharp as guilt.

It’s strange how something beautiful
can become a burden when it’s held too long.
How even roses wilt if you cling to them for the wrong reasons.
I didn’t want to drop them;
didn’t want to be the one who let go.
Didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t grateful
for the love, the pressure, the “you’re doing amazing”s that
sounded more like chains than cheers.

But my fingers are tired now.
The bouquet isn’t what it was.
The petals are bruised, the stems cracked,
and still I carry it
like it’s my job to make it bloom again
just by holding on.

But here’s the truth:
Letting go isn’t failure.
It’s the first step to something new.

So today, I loosen my grip.
Let the tired bouquet fall from my arms
and plant its pieces in the ground.
Maybe from that weight, something else will grow;
something lighter, freer,
a garden I can walk through
instead of a burden I have to bear.

Because I am not the flower.