To you who is obsessed with individuality

I am the rose in the Sahara.

Zebraing amongst the camels,

pinking in the muddled brown.

My petals peacock.

They radiate like no other,

in the midst of the barren wasteland.

My beauty, too rare not to savor.

But

they are greedy and

they long for every last morsel.

The birds, the camels, the gnats,

they all pull me apart.

Piece

by

piece.

I cannot cacti like the cactus does.

I cannot be independent of the elements;

I cannot withstand the harshness of my environment;

I cannot pierce the tongue of wandering lips;

I cannot deter spidering fingers with the threat of blood,

my thorns are far too small and they hyena at the sight.

Crafted by the hand of God,

still I am vultured.

I am not like them,

so the desert,

she prunes herself of me.

A life of conformity is no life worth living

but what was once a rarity is no more.

I lie sunned and wilted.

I AM CARCASSED.

And the common cacti?

They remain unscathed.