The Tall Poppy Gets Cut

*Outstanding Poetry nominee for the 43rd Annual EVVY Awards*

There's a saying—

I cannot recall

something about wheels and oil…

but I'm unsure of the words. 

I'm not very good at them—

words, I mean. 

My brain suddenly scrambles  

at my turn to speak,

And my stammer, it stifles me 

many a time,

I stumble and stutter till I’m forced to resign,

so I often opt for quiet.

My therapist diagnosed me with

G.A.D.

Generalized

Anxiety

Disorder

a 14 moderate on the test

feels so merciless,

turbulent, 

a continual tugging on each and every thread—

I try to wash it away

with water and wishful thinking, 

wondering if the worries will wane

if I simply command them to.

But at the end of each day,

returning home,

my cracks concave

and my sternum implodes 

Face drenched, muscles clenched,

my mother’s voice rings out that I'm a quitter

And my peers alongside will side-eye, and sneer, and snicker

Until I scream them to silence. 

But I can't.

Because as the saying goes,

“The Tall Poppy Gets Cut”

and everyday

I’m afraid

That my petal placement won’t be correct,

That my flower face won't look its best,

That my stem will be just a little too tall…

and then 

the clippers will descend 

and I’ll be cut—