Helen

16

"garden"

when I was four years old,
I planted seeds in the depths of my core,
hoping they would blossom
into a beautiful woman

I watered them every day
with optimism and positivity,
and I swatted away angst and rebellion
as if they were mosquitoes and wasps

my mother gave me a bag of fertilizer,
desperately urging for sunflowers --
possibly daisies,
maybe peonies or dandelions

on my tenth birthday
I felt the stems radiating
from the soil of my heart,
and I felt an inordinate amount of glee
about the growth of my garden

but no flowers were to be found,
plucked, or destined for a bouquet --
only mounds of colonizing weeds
and emerald ivy that hugged my bones

so I ripped them out
and uprooted them from my psyche
and prayed for clouds of gaiety,
sun rays of jubilance

but I got lightning bolts of woe
and rainbows drained of color;
thunder bolts of solemnity
echo and boom with such ferocity

june 24th, summer 2014
roses grow in my ribcage,
and while their petals delicately decorate my soul,
their thorns have bled me dry