Behind the Waxen Romantic

 Who would write a poem about a cactus?

  I would.

  Mostly because I can relate more to a cactus than a rose, even with her thorns. I've built walls around myself and still find myself adding bricks/spines to keep out predators. I wrote the poem because, at the time, I felt defeated, and I needed to write poetry for my college class. This came out over Chick-fil-A and a rather vicious game of ping pong in the college commons. 
  Most poets wax romantic about women in relation to objects of beauty, but I don't see myself as radiant as the moon or as intoxicating as a flower. To me, flowers are weak and I didn't raise myself to be weak, I grew out of spite.
And what is a cactus if not a plant built purely out of fucking spite? Am I right?
Cacti are this hidden beauty; they're a useful plant if you know how to use them. So, I meant every word I said when I compared myself to a cactus.
I know I'm beautiful, if not by industry standards.
I know I'm useful because, in a pinch, everything I am can be used in order to survive.
And lastly, I was never meant to just be 'beautiful', so I'm okay not being picked first, or even last, I rather be left to my own divices.
I'm better to be admired from afar than stuck in one pot, underwatered, and placed under fluorescents.

  Plus, I grew up in the desert. And after accidentally NOT kicking a soccer ball away from the mean plant, my ankle smarted when it connected to spines and spines connected to pliers, which eventually rid me of ouchie boo-boos. I relate 110% to that stubborn-as-hell plant and wish not to be anything else.