Daisies

By Hà Trang Trần

It’s lovely.

It feels like delicate butterflies fluttering in your stomach, 

like swirling winds of insignificance,

and itching unsaid words,

and “I have not left my house for the last 3 days because everyone hates me.”   

And you, yes you, can reek of what you’ve been scraping off the bathroom floor and be beguilingly damaged too

in exchange for stolen breaths  

and a bit of rationality. 

It’s easy to be beautiful, really.

Because somewhere along the lines of feeling too much and sleeping too little 

you’ll learn to laugh 

at your talent in crafting the perfect list of 101 ways in which things could go wrong,

or why you can’t speak to anyone without stuttering,

or how you’d like to smother yourself

with a pillow

because at least then, you’d know where the suffocation is coming from 

And when those butterflies wince as they are pulled out from your stomach,

while death is rushing through your throat

and forced back down,

your gag reflex will tell you this is all so awe-inspiring

because you’re just vomiting daisies.