gardens, and flowers, and homes

Mon, 08/19/2013 - 01:43 -- mxryam

Location

I live inside my own head

where there is a garden

and no door

“you let the garden wilt & rot”

“I wanted to,” I said

Doll lips upon the petals

trying to breathe life back into the garden.

I imagine my heart

encased in a milky white glass

along with some other parts of me

sweet basil 

and abandoned fur

It aches to be emptied

because nobody likes your

briny eyelashes

and stumbling tombstone

Baby pink scars

cry for mommy, cry for daddy

but they heal 

into roses.

This flower bed is more comfortable

than the hot coals of your eyes.

Feel the door knobs down my back

I try to twist them open

but they are not yet protruding

I am trying to open the door in my back

trying to open the attic door

and let the rain water nourish the garden

There is a burden of absence in myself

it fills me like soil

and the worms move through the soil

creating tunnels

for the parts of me

that I have forgotten, or neglected, or abused.

I used to be able to get into my house

through my big sisters window

But I have grown too cumbersome

to step each foot onto the dried flower petals.

Now my swollen chassis

crumbles into dust bunnies

into cinders

that singe holes

in the rug

falling like dust particles

in an old house 

with an old women

waiting for the moment

when her breath 

retreats like ocean waves

When she is no longer part of her garden of roses

and the old house

where the pieces of me

bones

cuticles

calluses 

and all

aimlessly floating

become the part of the old house

embedded in the creases of the walls 

and the floor boards

and the peeling paint

And I will be lodged 

into the house

I will become part of the garden

I will keep the pieces of me

that I regret

in flower pots

and maybe

my uncomfortable parts

will grow into larkspurs

and cherry blossoms

reaching outstretched limbs

and skinny wrists 

to the sky

embracing the clouds

and later the stars

I will press myself

like dried flowers

and petals

into the pages of a book.

Some day someone will stumble upon my flower parts

and scatter them

and I will become flower fragments.

I will write out every word

and hope it becomes etched into my skin

reminding me

of the pale nights

in the basement

the inverted emotions

that were once coated sweet

with an unfamiliar shell

and the sadness I feel now

because I am too forlorn to tell if my sternum

can bear

anymore bits

and pieces 

of myself.

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